"Good afternoon Missus Moore, sorry to disturb you" I heard as if from a far.
'What the hell's that?' I thought wondering whether I was dreaming.
I realised that I had dozed off. The glass of wine at lunch and the warm sun had got to me.
Daniel our relief gardener was standing off to one side from where I was lying on a sun lounger. Jerry our usual gardener was on holiday.
'Oh fuck' I said as I saw him. 'Bollocks' I muttered to myself pulling the bra of my bikini across my bare boobs. I had forgotten that he was working on the Tuesday this week and not Jerry's usual Wednesday.
"Yes Dan, what is it?" I asked feeling massively embarrassed.
"I need the weed killer and fertiliser."
When I had shown him where they were kept my embarrassment had subsided. I had walked with him across the patio to the little courtyard behind the garage where we had a small shed where we stored such stuff. I had been acutely aware of the thirty something guy's eyes on me as he followed me and then as we went into the shed together.
I was wearing a fairly brief bikini, black with some yellow markings. As it was a two-year-old model I knew it fitted me quite snugly, especially across my bum and boobs. I also knew that as I walked my hips would sway, my bottom would wiggle and my, nowadays D+, boobs would jiggle.
Looking for the stuff in the relatively coolness of the shed I didn't realise until we emerged and I saw his gaze on them that my nipples had hardened.
As he went off to get on with his work I realised that the embarrassment had changed to another sensation – arousal.
*
I have no idea what made me do it. I was in Berlin on business a couple of weeks later. I was alone and the weather was gorgeous; sunny and low-eighties with a light breeze. I was going shopping late in the afternoon prior to a business dinner in the evening and I decided to go without my bra. Even more to the point, I wore a scooped front, blue and white hooped top. It wasn't that low cut, but if I bent forward most of my breasts were on show and even though the material was heavy cotton the outline of them was, at times, quite evident. I knew all of that as I had spent a few minutes in front on the mirror checking my appearance or, as it could be described, practising.
As I strolled along the streets and round the shops, the attention wasn't continual, but it was regular. Not everyone looked at me, but numerous men and a few women did and that gave me a hell of a charge. I was extremely aware that my boobs would be wobbling and swaying and that all the time my aroused nipples would be making interesting protuberances in the material.
"May I show you anything else?" The short, dark haired, German shop helper asked looking deeply into my eyes. That made my heart pound a little.
"Such as?"
I had bought a couple of tops and a scarf in the small, stylish boutique.
"We have everything, skirts, dresses, coats or.................." she said in impeccable English leaving the sentence unfinished.
"Yes I know" I replied gulping a little as I realised that she was staring at my breasts.
"Underwear perhaps" she smiled running her gaze very obviously up to meet mine then dropping it again to where my nipples were pulsating with sensation.
*
The feelings were coming over me more frequently now. The urge to do something, show something and be looked at was occurring more regularly with shorter intervals than ever before. I had experienced this need for many years, but until recently, coincidentally it seems when I passed my forty-fifth birthday, I had been able to control it with relative ease. That was no longer the case. Now I was more frequently giving into the temptations, the desire, the wish the tremendous urge to show myself sexually to others. Although I had resisted acknowledging it before I was being forced to accept that I was an exhibitionist.
I lead a typically English, middle class life. We have a big house in its own grounds, Richard, my husband has a top of the range Rangerover and I have a BMW 330, we have a holiday home in Florida and we part own a villa in Tuscany. I work freelance editing articles and writing copy for a friend's ad agency and I do some voluntary work. Richard is a corporate lawyer and is on the board of governors of a private school nearby. We both belong to the local golf club and I am a member of a tennis club in the next town to St Albans where we live. We are financially well off with both of us having inherited from our parents and me having sold a family business; Richard was the lawyer who helped me sell the business and we ended up celebrating the sale in bed. Pillars of society or so it seems on the surface!
Richard has always enjoyed photography and spends a fortune on cameras, lenses and lights. About ten years ago he first persuaded me to pose for him in 'glamour' shots. At first these were just swimsuit and underwear shots, but gradually we got braver and we moved on to topless then nude. Looking back, I guess that was the start of my realisation of my exhibitionist streak. I had resisted posing for him for probably a couple of years I guess, although the suggestion did excite me. That said, when we started I was so nervous. Inevitably, I guess I quickly overcame that and soon the camera became my lover and the lens the cock that I wanted to fuck me. That never happened, but Richard did, and wonderfully too, often on the carpet and once or twice out in the garden. Every time we had a session we had fantastic sex that was much better than when without the stimulus of the camera.
Realising that I was an exhibitionist scared me. It was a hard concept to take on board, but the evidence was overwhelming so I had to accept it.
I needed to find out more. With my lawyer of a husband travelling so much and my two children at university I had time on my hands, too much really, but it did mean I could use the net for research.
I learned a lot very quickly
*
I was a keen tennis player and belonged to a local club. My husband Richard was not interested so the club was own domain, he never came there and I didn't include him in anything, not even the social events.
Recently I had started back at the gym. I made it about three times a week for an hour or so; twenty minutes stretching, twenty on the cross trainer and twenty swimming. Then half hour or so in the steam room, sauna and spas.
My research and general feelings told me that both of these were ideal for my, what I knew was becoming a compulsion. I sort of hoped that the fix I got from them might stop me trying to find a bigger fix from other activities.
I had always enjoyed wearing tennis skirts, tight tops, training gear and swim-suits. I liked the feeling of freedom and the glances and stares at my bare legs, my breasts emphasised by tight clothing and my bum in a swimsuit or lycra crops.
Now I was relishing it even more and, of course, I was playing to it. The tennis skirts were shorter or more flared. The tops were lower-cut and tighter across my breasts. The panties under the skirt and the bras under the tops were not sports gear, but were straightforward 'intimate apparel.' I stopped wearing anything under the tight cropped, pedal pusher pants in the gym and in the pool area I took to wearing bikinis instead of one piece suits.
The gym was more of a 'meat market' than the tennis club. The latter was more discrete, but underlying that there was still a great deal of come on and suggestive behaviour. There was a number of guys aged thirty to fifty I guess whose wives were not members. They were always on the prowl. Then there were the married couples who wanted, it seemed and it was rumoured, to partner swap; something Richard would never stoop too, well at least not with me. And then of course there were the coaches; young men, fit and virile who gave lessons to everyone, particularly older women. It was strongly rumoured and I had no reason to doubt it that they did a lot more with those older woman than give lessons. Being a fairly proficient player I had no need for lessons, though I was often tempted by the 'lot more.'
That said, I loved the feel of their eyes on me when I was on court or sitting around after playing having a drink. I enjoyed them looking at my tits leaping all over the place, my bum wobbling under the thin skirt and my bare legs on show. I got a kick from them seeing the outline of my bra through my top and the occasional explosion of one or both nipples as I was on court. I exaggerated my movements so that my top was stretched across my tits more frequently and so that my skirt flared away from me flashing my 'unsuitably for tennis really' flimsy panties. I thought about wearing a thong under there, but felt that was probably going a little too far.
It was the same at the gym. Tight clothing, no panties, ordinary instead of sports bra, revealing tops, lots of flesh and bouncing boobs and wobbling bum cheeks. I loved the guys mainly, but the occasional female too looking at me, ogling me and maybe mentally undressing me.
In the pool complex I would sit in the steam room and let the perspiration flow so that my bikini was soaked. As others looked on in the steamy, foggy environment I would rub the perspiration in so that I touched my body all over. I would arouse myself even more as I covertly ran a small towel across my tits.
*
With the gym and tennis 'fuelling my habit' I was 'at it' so much of the time now. I would do my housework or writing in the nude and wander the garden topless. In addition to my, almost, daily gym or tennis 'flash' I was most days doing something else. When shopping wearing a revealing top, tight trousers or shorts with no panties so there was no VPL. 'Forgetting' to wear a bra, shorter skirts either very tight or flared and of course nothing under them. I had urges to pull the skirt and flash everything or to get my tits out in public, but of course I didn't. After all pillars of society don't do such things.
But they can and do indulge in research. What an Aladdin's cave' of information googling exhibitionism produced!
There's a mine of technical psychobabble trying to explain it, loads of photo sites, which are just excuses for porn, quite a few blogs and a number of sites you can join, which I did. There was one in particular letmehelpyoubeseen.com that I enjoyed.
It was more an email and blog, but it also offered a range of services. In some ways it was a little like Samaritans for a coach was assigned to each member to whom you could then relate.
Mine was Paul. He was in his late forties and from the posted photo I saw he was well-built, with dark hair greying at the temples and a nice, well-tuned physique.
