Warning:
This story contains group sex (MMF), exhibitionism, and a voyeur
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It's hard not to love New York. For me, it's the first true spring days in New York that are special. It's the soft green color of the new leaves on the trees, the chirping of the freshly arrived birds, and the excitement of the newly fledged pigeon squabs.
It's also the time when the winter clothes go into hibernation and the spring clothes come out to play. It's when we girls want our bare skin to feel the sunshine. The way to do that is not to cover up.
This means there's lots of bare legs, bare shoulders, bare arms, bare everything and anything, as much as one dares. After all, the Second Amendment gives us girls the right to bare arms (hee, hee). Bare legs is simply implicit. The framers of the constitution were clearly more interested in a girl's arms than her legs. What was their problem, anyway?
I suppose all the bare flesh emerging in early spring is true of all northern cities. What makes New York so special? I don't know exactly what makes it special. Part of it might be the relative abundance of girls with blue hair? No? It could be any of several things. New York has tons of people, so it's more likely to spot an adventurous one on the street, pushing the boundaries, for one thing.
New York has a long sexy tradition, a lot of it centered around Times Square and Greenwich Village. New York has a long tradition of tolerance, not always by the police, but with the population in general. It has a large gay population and aspects of gay culture are way out there and in particular when it comes to dress.
New York has lots of students, especially in Greenwich Village again, as well as hip young people trying to get by in an expensive city. It also has a large black population, and black people appreciate style. When I get a complement on my outfit it's more likely to come from a black woman stranger than from anyone else.
So whatever the reason it was a beautiful day yesterday and I was out and about. For some reason I kept seeing women on the sidewalks who were clearly braless. One woman, of mixed race I'd guess, Asian/White with tiny breasts but big nipples, was walking right at me wearing a close approximation of nothing. Her nipples were poking big time at her flimsy top. No bra for her today. Love the look!
When I went to Home Depot on West 23rd Street, I saw a woman wearing a tight white T shirt with no bra underneath. I could see her boobs, areolas and nipples right through the T shirt. She was around my age (mid-twenties), and I don't know how she did it, because her boobs were C or maybe D cup, around the same size as mine. Maybe the tightness of the T shirt gave her some support? Anyway, she looked, quite simply, great!
I got jealous. I've got boobs, too, and it looked like fun to walk around the sidewalks of New York wearing some kind of top that would show them off to anyone who wanted to look. I just didn't have the courage. Pity, that.
I live alone now. I kicked my boyfriend out around a month ago; it's not interesting why. It was one of the classic scenarios. One falls in love, one lives together, one gradually discovers one can't stand the other. It's the sex that's the last to go, but when it does, eventually one cheats. In our case it was my boyfriend who cheated. It's so stereotypical that it's boring.
I now live alone in a 'garden apartment' which means on the ground floor of my building, in the back. The apartment has a tall privacy fence, thank goodness, so I have just a bit of privacy.
The back of another building faces the back of my building, so someone from a high floor can see into parts of my apartment, especially at night, when the lights are on. I could of course close the curtains at night, but the apartment came without curtains, and I don't have the money to buy decent ones. I can barely afford the rent. Anyway, I'm sure my neighbors have better things to do than to peek into my apartment from the higher floors facing it.
I've become inured to the danger of exposing myself. I guess since the 'danger' is omnipresent, I just don't think about it. It's not what you think: I'm always dressed or at least covered up. It's not like I parade around my apartment topless, bottomless, or nude, after all.
There was, however, the one time. It's that one time that led to the situation I'm in now. It's that one time that changed my life forever. It's that one time that I showed to myself just of what I'm capable. It's that one time that I'll never forget, never outlive, never be able to undo. It's just that one time. The one time, damn it all, just the one time.
You see, I had free floating anxiety, and I drank some booze to calm myself down. It didn't work. Instead I still had the anxiety, but now the booze had let my depressive nature rise to the surface. I made brownies and ate one or two, okay maybe three, and I had added some pot to the recipe, and when you eat them, it takes a bit of time for the effect to hit you. It's slower than when you smoke the stuff. It hits you though. It certainly does that. It hit me right between the eyes.
Basically, I lost the ability to think clearly, since now I was a mellow version of anxious, depressed, drunk, and stoned. I still felt lousy and finally it occurred to me that maybe sex could change my barely tolerable state of mind? It had always worked before.
Problem: No boyfriend anymore. I was still glad I had kicked him out. He was no good. Had he still been there, however, I could have had some fun with him. He had an insatiable appetite for sex, and we were good together in bed.
No, I was not about to call him! That would be the zenith of stupidity! Well, my Dad always wanted me to be self-reliant. He wasn't talking about sex when he said that, but had he been, I'm sure he would have agreed. When I was a child of seven I had once walked in on him when he had been illustrating that exact point, now hadn't he? I didn't understand it back then, but the memory stuck, and I sure do understand it now! So I'm sure he would agree, had I asked him. I was not about to ask him, however!
Being anxious, depressed, drunk, and stoned, however, before I could even begin to masturbate the thoughts of my Dad segued to my older brother. He lived only two blocks away. His roommate was a hunk. What if I invited him and his roommate over for some brownies? My brother would eventually go home, and I would 'convince' his roommate to stay a little longer, you know?
The idea of sex with my brother's roommate Rob turned me on. I forgot about my brother and all I could think about was whether Rob would be on top, dominating me, pummeling me, or whether I would be on top and in control? Maybe Rob was a backdoor man? I was getting aroused just by my fantasy.
This was a horrible idea. I was fairly sure Rob would give a full and detailed recounting of whatever sex we might have to my brother. To my very own older brother! I couldn't handle the shame of that, I was sure. That's what I would have been thinking had I been sober and not depressed. Of course, had I not been anxious, depressed, and drunk, I would not even have been having these thoughts!
Maybe I'm not conveying effectively just how deranged I was just then, but at the time I thought it was a brilliant idea. I focused on the details of my emerging plan. How to dress to seduce? I remembered the woman I had seen on the sidewalk near Home Depot on West 23rd Street and how sexy I thought she had looked.
I remembered that I had an old white T shirt made of elegant Egyptian cotton. I didn't wear it anymore because it had shrunk a bit when I accidentally washed it in too hot water. It was now too small and especially so around my bust. It might therefore be perfect?
I dug it out of the appropriate bureau drawer and tried it on. I modeled it without a bra. Wow. My boobs popped! I was so out of it I did not even realize I was changing clothes in my window, in full view of my neighbors across the courtyard but only on higher floors (due to the privacy fence). I was captivated about the view of my nipples and areolas right through the blouse, and the outline of my boobs. I looked just like that sexy woman on West 23rd Street, except that my areolas I thought were bigger and darker. Eat your heart out, sexy woman stranger!
I started to dream about how my older brother's roommate Rob would react. He was a doctor, in a residency at NYU Langone Hospital, having first interned at St. Luke's, uptown in Morningside Heights, in South Harlem.
My brain was addled by the anxiety, depression, booze, and pot, which might explain why, that as I was admiring myself in the mirror, I only then realized my bottom half was naked. Whoops! That would have been much too obvious for Rob, or for any other man. Once again, I forgot about my brother Bruce, as I was thinking only about Rob. I put on a thong and pulled on some skin-tight tights, and then added a micro miniskirt.
Nah. I pulled it all off and removed the thong. Then I pulled the tights back on and checked myself out. Yup - there was my camel toe, visible right through the tights! I'll bet men find something like this sexy, I thought.
I must have been giving some lucky neighbor across the courtyard, if he were looking, quite an entertaining view, but at the time I wasn't thinking about that, or anything else, except Rob. I put my micro mini skirt back on. I only wear it over skinny jeans or tights, as it's much too short and 'out there' to wear over bare legs.
I realized that in my excitement over the choice of my outfit I had forgotten to call my brother Bruce! I quickly remedied that. They had not had dinner yet so I invited him and Rob over for pizza, beer and 'my special brownies' for dessert. Bruce told me they'd be over in ten. I called the nicest pizza place in the neighborhood (which makes great pizza, and it tastes even better when you're stoned) and ordered three pizzas of various kinds, with a big side salad, and some vanilla ice cream.
The men showed up and Rob took one look at me and began to drool, metaphorically speaking. It was working! Now all I had to do was to get rid of my brother Bruce, once dinner was done. I acted all innocent and busied about preparing their beers, each with a slice of lime.
I was in the kitchen when I heard Rob's phone ding. His phone had a unique ding when a text came in. "Shit!" I heard him say.
Rob came into the kitchen, took his first ever liberty with me by giving my ass a little squeeze, as if to test the water. I giggled in response. He gave me his best wistful smile. He told me he was sorry but he had to leave right away. He was the only doctor at Langone with experience dealing with gunshot wounds, and they had a gunshot victim in the ER. "I treated a few unfortunate gunshot victims when I interned uptown at St. Luke's, you see."
Rob grabbed his coat and left. Five minutes later way too much pizza, salad, and ice cream arrived. I paid the deliveryman, who stared in shock at my boobs through my T shirt. As soon as he had left I collapsed on the couch and burst into tears.
My poor older brother Bruce had to deal with me. I told him the whole, sordid story. I told him of my breakup with my boyfriend, how I had free floating anxiety and depression, how I had tried liquor, pot, and now company and was looking forward to seducing Rob, figuring sex would be the ultimate distraction.
"So that's why you're dressed the way you are?" Bruce asked.
"Do you like it? Is it too slutty, or just slutty enough?" I asked.
"It's certainly slutty enough, Sally. If you told Rob you wanted sex, he would have complied in a heartbeat. He may not even have waited for me to leave," Bruce said.
"Oooh, kinky! Would you have stayed and watched your little sister get ravished?" I asked.
