Indian Slut's Sirt Woes in Library

I glanced around, then slowly lifted the back of my short, pleated black PVC skirt, revealing my firm, O-shaped, dark Indian ass--thirty-five inches of sculpted curves, bouncing just a little, over my thick, muscular thighs and long, fuck-me legs.

I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slid them down, my palms grazing the bare skin of my ass-cheeks--slow, deliberate, enough to make me tremble as I imagined putting on a show for an audience that didn't exist.

The bright yellow lace panties--sheer, delicate, and unmistakably slutty--now lay shamelessly tangled around my feet.

It looked marvelous. Sexy. Loud. Like a dirty little dare, whispered to anyone who might wander into this quiet book aisle of my college library in Mumbai--right where I stood, heart pounding, on the edge of my next exhibitionist thrill.

I hadn't planned much this time--just the outfit, just the spot.

The aisle I stood in was tucked away at the far end of the library, quiet and almost forgotten.

I didn't want to get caught... but I kind of hoped I would. And if someone happened to wander by, the sight of my slutty sunshine-yellow panties--brazenly pooled around my black block heels--might serve as a warning... or an invitation.

Now that I've got your attention, let me introduce myself.

My name is Neha. I'm a 22-year-old dusky Indian girl living in Mumbai. I moved here four years ago from a small town in North India after getting into a prestigious college.

I identify as a slutty, exhibitionist cock-tease--or, as we might say in Hindi, a "Lund Mohini".

Lund means cock. Dick. Pecker. Penis. Whatever filthy word you like best.

Mohini? That's the tease. The temptress. The one who drives you crazy with wanting.

Lund is my favorite word for a cock. It's raw, rustic, raunchy--and it makes me wet the moment I say it. So yes, I'll be using lund throughout this story, even though it's otherwise in English.

For those unfamiliar, lund rhymes with fund. Think of it this way:

Lund: (L)ove, F(und).

When I'm especially turned on, I stretch it out--Lunnnnnd--the same way you might moan Caaaaar if you were begging for a ride. Except I'm usually begging for something else.

When my tongue presses down to stretch that nnnn in Lunnnnd, it feels like someone's tongue pressing deep against my cunt--slow, firm, and enough to make me shiver.

I stand 5 feet 6 inches tall--above average for a girl in India. With my fluffy black curls brushing my shoulders and a modest two-inch heel, I easily pass for 5 '10". And around here, that's pretty damn tall.

My 32C tits are crowned with long, pointed nipples--dark, stiff, and impossible to ignore. They're the reason I stopped wearing bras a long time ago. Why hide what everyone wants to check out?

And those sweet gentlemen who try to keep their eyes locked on mine? They always fail. Their gaze drifts down, helpless, tracing the twin peaks pressing through whatever thin fabric I've barely bothered to wear.

So let's be clear: if you're facing me, your eyes will feel my nipples. I make sure that there's no escaping.

I keep my body tight with regular gym sessions, which have earned me a toned 23-inch waist, a flat, firm stomach, sculpted shoulders, thick muscular thighs, and a perfectly round, high-sitting 35-inch ass.

But the sexiest part of me? My back.

From the strong curve of my shoulder blades, it narrows into my waist, then flares out again at my hips, leading to my full, O-shaped cheeks. The smooth line of my spine runs straight down, the knuckles of each vertebrae visible beneath my skin--diving deep into the warm, contoured cleavage of my ass.

And let's not forget my dusky, glowing Indian skin--always warm, always radiant. No one can resist a second glance. Or a third.

Which is why, more often than not, the generous me leaves a lot of my skin on display.

I consider it my duty to please their eyes.

So, at any given time, in any place, you just might catch me--fully or partially exposed, on purpose or by "accident"--delighting the wandering eyes of strangers (or not-so-strangers), and making their day... or night. If they're lucky enough to be in the right place, at the right time.

Back in the present, I couldn't take my eyes off the obscene little masterpiece at my feet--my sheer yellow lace panties, damp and delicate, draped shamelessly over my black block heels like a naughty confession whispered into the silence of a college library aisle in broad daylight.

I had to touch them. Instinct took over.

I bent at the waist--legs straight, knees tight, ass high--and reached down.

My fingers found the exact spot where my freshly waxed, dusky pussy had soaked the lace.

Still warm. Still wet.

I pressed into it, smearing the slickness between my fingertips. My breath caught, a soft gasp echoing in the stillness, as shivers bloomed through the darker pink folds of my glistening Indian cunt.

As I bent forward, the hem of my loose, sleeveless white linen shirt slipped forward, baring the soft swell of my underboobs--nipples grazing the inside of the fabric, already hard. Just the kind of detail that could drive a man insane without ever seeing the full show.

My other hand slid behind me, curious, checking just how far my skirt had ridden up. It barely covered my ass--just one teasing inch below the curve of my cheeks.

My legs, long and strong, ran bare all the way down to that scandalous little puddle of panties around my heels.

Anyone behind me would've had a full view--and possibly a heart attack.

The world was lucky--no one was there to suffer that fatal view.

Still, I frowned at the skirt.

It had the audacity to cover my pussy and ass while I bent over? Really? So what was it doing when I stood upright--reaching mid-thigh?

Annoyed, I stood up and gave it a quick once-over.

Yep. Three, maybe four inches below the curve of my ass.

Totally unacceptable.

"What am I, a fucking nun?" I growled, ripping the panties from around my feet and letting them fall to the floor like they belonged there.

I needed something shorter.

A skirt that wouldn't dare dip past my ass cheeks--even when I stood tall. So that next time I bent over, legs straight, knees locked, my bare pussy and at least half my ass would stare boldly back at anyone lucky enough to catch me in the act.

"Mmmm... wardrobe emergency," I whispered, licking my lips. "And I know just how to fix it.

I tugged the waistband of my skirt up a few inches, raising the hem until the PVC edge flicked across the bare swell of my ass cheeks. Perfect. Now shorter than I had planned. Naughty enough to feel right.

As I started to move, the front hemline patted my clit and pussy lips--each touch sending a shiver deep into my core.

With every step, the hem swished--tickling, teasing, applauding my boldness. The front seam slid between my thighs, brushing slick skin, then flipping up with every stride, baring my naked ass to the empty aisle.

Each sway of my hips made the glossy hem slap against my clit.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Never hard enough. Never fast enough.

Every tap sent a sharp jolt straight to my core. Every curve of my spine threatened to flash my swollen, glistening slit.

I was soaked. Swollen. Sensitive.

My long, stiff nipples strained against the thin white linen of my shirt--clearly outlined, unmistakable. The fabric brushed them gently with every breath, every motion. But, they were begging not for cloth, but for lips. For mouths.

I strutted up and down the book aisle, pretending to glance at titles--but really, I was playing. Modeling. Posing just so. Imagining how I might look to someone suddenly walking into my aisle.

"Walking into my aisle," I whispered, biting my lip at the delicious double meaning.

There was definitely an aisle between my thighs now--and it was wet, open, and aching for attention.

Hot. Slick. Gaping.

Free of lace, restraint... or shame.

The delicious feel of air kissing the sticky lips of my pussy, the curve of my ass catching the light with every step--it was intoxicating.

But freedom came at a cost.

In tugging the skirt up to free my ass-curves, I'd hidden something else I loved.

That perfectly sculpted lower waist.

The soft dip just above my hips.

The gentle hint of cleavage where my spine disappeared between my ass cheeks.

The hard V that tapered down my pelvis, pointing straight to my slit.

And now it was all tucked away, hidden beneath PVC.

And, that wouldn't do.

I wanted to flaunt it all.

The smooth plane of my belly.

The tight V plunging into my cunt.

The shadowed dip of my spine, the tease of dusky curves--ass and pussy both.

If I had to choose? I wouldn't.

I wanted it all on display. Simultaneously.

I pouted--briefly.

The sensation of PVC tapping my clit had its own rhythm. With every step--tap, tap, tap--right on my most sensitive spot. I could feel it swelling, aching, desperate for more.

But those soft taps weren't enough anymore.

I needed slaps. Fast. Hard.

Maybe it would be harder if I walked faster, I thought.

My thighs flexed, my ass bounced, and my hips swung in wide, wanton arcs--like I was strutting down a private runway built for sluts without underwear, without shame.

The skirt obeyed.

Tap, slap. Tap, slap.

Each bounce hit my clit like a live wire--jolting through me, making my thighs tremble, making me throb, making me crave more.

My ass was practically performing--bouncing, jiggling, putting on a dirty little show with every step. In my head, the sound of each bounce was thunderous applause from my imaginary audience, loving every second of my fantasy runway tease.

And then the thought hit me:

Would they see how wet I was?

Would they notice the flush on my ass?

Would they hear how soaked I'd become... just from walking?

I laughed softly. My invisible audience was loud now.

"Touch it," one whispered.

"Slap it," another hissed.

I obeyed--hand dipping between my thighs to spank my aching pussy.

But I struck plastic.

Not skin.

I growled. Again. Still PVC.

That damn skirt had slipped down again--covering the very parts I craved to flash.

I was furious.

I had betrayed them--the horny audience in my head, aching for a peek at my soaked, swollen pussy.

The skirt's downward slide had been inevitable.

My narrow waist couldn't hold the loose waistband for long--not with hips strutting and thighs pulsing.

I paused, catching my breath, and caught a glimpse of myself in the library's reflective window.

There it was--

The flat of my lower belly.

The sculpted V, leading into my slit.

The top swell of my dusky ass cheeks.

The shadowed spine, vanishing into the cleft between them.

My lips curled into a slow smirk as my mood flipped up instantly.

My audience had something equally captivating to feast on.

"Why not both?" someone from the audience pleaded.

I smiled. Who was I to deny my fans?

I wasn't born to behave.

I was born to make you lose your fucking mind.

I pulled the waistband of my skirt up again--then rolled it down by the same amount.

Now the hem sat exactly where I wanted it.

The waistband clung low to my hips, tight and submissive.

The hem flirted with the curves of my ass, revealing everything--

The deep taper of my waist.

The flare of my hips.

The top and bottom curves of my dusky, round ass.

And the sweet, glistening flashes of my swollen, dripping pussy.

Now, no one had to choose.

They had it all.

The crowd applauded and I bounced like a horny cheerleader, the hem of my skirt slapping against my clit with every jump.

Thwack. Thwack.

The skirt's hem smacked my swollen clit with every bounce.

I bit my lip, stifling a moan as my slick smeared warmly down my inner thighs.

I twirled, strutted, and gave a full-blown pornographic ramp walk, swinging my hips like I was fucking the air.

The absurdity made it hotter.

But the illusion shattered when I caught my reflection in the window.

The skirt's thick waistband, now rolled over a few times, looked... bulky and cheap.

It bunched awkwardly, like a desperate stunt.

I didn't look like a sleek, smartly dressed slut anymore--I looked like a desperate whore playing a rich girl dress-up.

That illusion of calculated seduction had slipped. I felt like a slut, yes--but not a stylish one. And worse, the tight roll dug into my lower belly, making me feel both restrained and utterly ruined.

That's when I heard it.

Footsteps.

Getting closer.

My heart slammed--not from being exposed, but from looking like the disaster of a whore instead of the flawless fantasy slut I wanted to be.

My reputation was at stake.

My hands flew to the skirt, unrolling the waistband in a flash, restoring its smooth fall while keeping the hem hiked.

Crisis, mostly, averted. But then--fuck.

My panties - bright yellow, calling-for-attention, still on the floor, creamy and damp, like evidence at a crime scene.

Shit.

I darted toward them, scooping them up fast, already imagining how it would've looked--me, panties in hand, cheeks flushed, skirt barely covering my slit.

Too much. Unless... unless I liked who saw me.

The footsteps stopped. Then... faded.

Gone.

I peeked around the corner. No one. Not in my aisle. Not in the next.

I sighed, disappointed. I badly wanted to be seen.

My arousal had peaked with the risk--and now it was cruelly unresolved.

I returned to my aisle, panties still in hand, cheeks flushed.

What if someone had caught me holding them?

The thought made me blush deeply.

But, I resolved not to be too obvious until I liked who saw me.

I unzipped my handbag that was kept on a nearby stool. As I shoved my hand inside to finally tuck my panties away, my fingers brushed against something cold and metallic.

Scissors.

My eyes lit up and my heart skipped.

Suddenly, I had a solution to all my problems.

I darted out swiftly, checking a few more aisles--empty. At least in my half of the library, I was alone.

Good. I could enact my strategy safely, if I acted fast.

Back in my aisle, I moved like a girl possessed - panties still in my hand as I forgot to tuck them in the handbag in a hurry.

The aisle stretched between two 25-foot bookshelves, narrow and open at both ends. By now, I knew every book genre placed in this aisle, which had also been my private stage today--every ramp walk I'd done today had been here. Now, was the time for more!

Dropping the panties on the stool, next to the handbag, I unzipped my skirt, took it off, and discarded them too on top of the stool.

What remained on my body was just a white-linen shirt:

Paper-thin, Loose, Sleeveless.

Cropped--barely hanging three inches below my tits, never in touch with my flat belly.

Buttoned-down--Just 3 of them:

First button--Flirting with the top curves of my cleavage.

Second: Strategically stitched an inch above the level of my nipples.

Third: An inch below the bottom swells my tits.

No bra. No panties. Nothing else.

I stood nearly naked in my college library during working hours, in broad daylight.

And my black block heels anchoring me like a bitch ready to be discovered and fucked.

I moved the handbag and panties to the floor as I needed the stool cleared.

Spreading the skirt flat over the seat, I bent forward--slowly, theatrically--to retrieve the scissors from the handbag kept on the floor, carefully keeping my knees tight together and straight, like a good girl showing off, following the same sinful protocol.

As if reading my mind, my shirt slid again, this time completely, pooling around my shoulders.

Nothing was hidden now. Not even a little.

If anyone walked into the aisle right then, they wouldn't see a student.

They'd see a slutty little showpiece--bent over, naked, wet and inviting--putting her fat, Indian ass on full display--thirty-five inches of dark, filthy fuckmeat jiggling over her thick, muscle-packed thighs and legs made to be spread. Her cheeks bare and shameless, begging for a slap, a grip, or a load.

I closed my eyes and begged silently. Please... someone come. See me. Use me. Anyone. Please!

My pussy throbbed. I was leaking, trembling, open.

My clit felt like it had its own heartbeat.

I wanted to stay like this for eternity.

But, No. I couldn't look like whore--I wanted to be a stylish slutty tease!

So, I stood, flushed and shaking, the scissors trembling in my hand. The shirt dropped back around me--trying to shield me.

Time for the real work.

I bent again slightly, this time over the stool to start cutting the skirt to shorten the length.

My shirt hung away from my body completely, like a curtain pulled aside.

Anyone walking in from the front would get the full view down my open shirt--nipples stiff, tits hanging free, belly taut, pussy swollen and glistening, slick trailing down thighs begging for lips or fingers.

And if they came from behind?

Oh god. My favorite angle.

My glistening, aching, open cunt adorned with a narrow waist, sculpted back, perfect ass, and those long, toned legs stretching down in heels.

My whole body said one thing: Come ruin me.

My hands were shaking--either from adrenaline or arousal, I couldn't tell. Probably both.

The scissors hit the floor with a loud clatter.

I was running out of time.

Cutting PVC with those tiny scissors felt like trying to chisel marble with a toothpick--but I wasn't crafting a skirt anymore. I was sculpting sex. This wasn't just tailoring. This was foreplay.

I picked up the scissors again, gripping them with purpose, and hovered over the hem of the skirt.

I recalled that the skirt had landed three or four inches below the curve of my ass--reaching the upper thighs--when I stood straight.

Prudish. Not anymore!

I guesstimated four inches above the hem and started slicing, praying that I didn't undershoot. The blades sliced through the material slowly, stubbornly, like they knew the sin they were unleashing.

The final cut was neat and smooth--almost professional--except for a slight dipping curve in the middle, making the length shorter in the center.

It was no longer a skirt. It was a weapon.

Without wasting another second, I slipped the skirt up my thighs and over my ass. The waistband rested gently just below my pelvis.

I turned toward the reflective library window to admire my wicked handiwork.

My dusky Indian skin glowed against the black PVC.

The sharp V of my pelvis pointed straight into my hidden slit.

The curve in the middle of my skirt's new hemline boldly revealed the glossy cleft of my dusky pussy lips and a scandalous peek at my ass crack on my back.

The sides of the black skirt hung slightly lower, barely covering the tops of my thighs, drawing the eyes back to the center like a dark frame around naked art.

I was a walking fantasy, and I fucking knew it.

And I would look like a sex goddess if I used a little bit of makeup. Sluts always carry some in their handbags.

As I bent down to pick up the handbag from the floor, I felt the skirt riding up my ass--uncovering it fully.

Mission accomplished!

I did it--it was a moment of slutty pride.

Standing straight again, I put the handbag down on the stool and retrieved my lipstick--glossy, dark pink--the color of mischief.

I smeared it across my lips, watching the gleam dance in the light. Bold and deliberate.

Then I crouched slightly, with one hand down between my thighs, I painted my lower lips too--the soft, wet ones dripping obscenely.

The slick, pink pout of my cunt--my slut signature--practically begged to be kissed.

I wasn't done.

I picked up the scissors once more, held them to the top button of my shirt, and snipped.