Life must go on

Peter was taken with the idea.

Somewhere at this university, there was a blonde student who was fulfilling other people’s wildest sexual fantasies. He asked around. Discreetly. He asked other janitors, a few fellow students who spent a lot of time in the large lecture halls, and even a secretary in the dean’s office. Blonde, young, very attractive, short skirts, something to do with media or being an influencer. The descriptions remained vague. No one could give him a name. No one had a specific person in mind.

That evening, he started a throwaway thread on Reddit in a local university subreddit:

“Has anyone seen a very attractive blonde student in one of the large lecture halls in the last few days who was… acting strangely? Or any rumors?”

The responses were sparse and useless. A few jokes, a “Dude, what are you smoking?”, nothing else. The blonde’s identity remained a mystery.

At the same time, Lena was getting dressed.

Her thong was gone. For some reason, she didn’t want to wear regular panties. The very thought felt wrong. She opted for thin, almost see-through fabric pants and nothing underneath. Normally, she would have at least worn a thong—the fabric quickly became transparent when backlit and revealed everything. Today, she didn’t care.

She took the bus to a stop near the old shopping street and walked the rest of the way. When she stood in front of the small shop, there was only a handwritten sign hanging in the window:

Closed for 3 weeks.

“What a bummer,” she muttered.

Frustrated, she strolled on through downtown. Shopping. A distraction. She went into two lingerie stores and a slightly more upscale boutique. She bought a few skimpy bodysuits, sheer tops, and new underwear—all much more revealing than usual.

She stayed in the fitting room longer. The light was harsh and unflattering; most girls hated it. Lena loved it. Here she could showcase her body in a controlled way, test different angles, see how the fabric draped, and what it revealed.

She took dozens of photos. Many of them were far too revealing.

She picked out three of the less extreme—but still very revealing—photos and posted them. Even on her way to the register, the first likes and comments started rolling in. The feeling of having control over her image again calmed her down a bit.

After getting some ice cream, she went home.

She wasn’t tired enough to sleep yet. So she lay down on the couch, turned on the TV, and put on some movie without really watching it.

She’d already noticed him in the store. As she browsed through the short skirts and tight tops, she felt his gaze on her. He was standing two racks away, rather unassuming, in his early thirties, slim, with a slightly uncertain posture, his hair disheveled, his clothes plain. Exactly the type of guy she normally would never have given a second glance—that eternal virgin vibe, the kind of man who’d probably never really seen a woman naked. And yet, at that moment, she found him attractive. Something about the way he was secretly, almost shyly staring at her made her wet even before she stepped into the changing room.

She deliberately chose the large changing room at the very back of the area, which was a little off to the side. The curtain was long, but she didn’t pull it all the way closed. A slit remained open, just wide enough that someone sitting on the bench across from her could see everything if they wanted to. And he sat down right there. He set his bag down beside him, pretended to be waiting for someone, and stared through the gap.

She knew he could see her. And she wanted him to see her. Under the pretext of trying on clothes and taking a few selfies, she put on an unforgettable show for him.

She took the first selfie head-on. She pushed up her white top until her firm, young breasts were exposed, her nipples already hard and dark pink. She pulled up her short skirt in the front and back until it was just a narrow strip of fabric around her waist. No underwear. Her smoothly shaved pussy was completely exposed. Her outer labia were plump and rosy, the inner ones slightly swollen and already glistening with moisture. She spread her legs a little, held up her phone, and deliberately looked at him through the gap in the curtain. Her gaze clearly said: I know you’re watching. And I’m letting you.

He stared, completely still. His pants already showed a distinct bulge. She smiled ever so slightly, pressed the shutter button, and kept her skirt up for another moment so he could see the wetness already gathering between her lips.

For the second selfie, she turned around. One leg on the bench, her butt pushed far back, her back arched. Her skirt completely hiked up. She held the phone behind her back, angling it so the camera captured her open slit from behind—and at the same time, the gap in the curtain gave him the same view. Her asshole was exposed, pink and tight, with the fine wrinkles that stretched slightly due to her posture. Below that, her pussy from behind, labia spread apart, the pink, wet slit clearly visible. A thin thread of moisture was already dripping down. She reached between her legs with two fingers and deliberately spread herself wider so he could see everything: the dripping entrance, the swollen clitoris, the smooth, shaved skin, the twitching asshole. She heard him quietly hold his breath. Then she pressed the shutter.

For the third selfie, she knelt on all fours on the floor of the stall, her ass raised as high as possible and spread as wide as she could, her upper body bent low. Her top was hanging from just one shoulder. She set the timer to three seconds, positioned the phone on the bench, and opened the curtain slit a little wider with one hand before getting into position. When the shutter clicked, everything was visible: her asshole, tightly clenched and then slightly open again; the wet, clean-shaven pussy beneath it, her labia plump and glistening; a thick drop just falling from her hole onto the floor. She held the pose, breathing heavily, and looked over her shoulder at him through the slit.

“Come here,” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear. “Take two or three photos. Of me. If you want.”

He hesitated for just a second, then stood up, stepped closer, and pushed the curtain aside a little. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out his own cell phone. She remained on all fours, her ass thrust out toward him, her legs spread wide. He knelt behind her, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin.

The first photo he took showed her butt up close: the pink, slightly open asshole, the moist folds, the smooth perineum, and below that, her dripping pussy, the labia spread so wide that you could see deep into the glistening, pink slit. He took the second photo while she reached a hand back and gently spread her anus with two fingers. You could see the darker, wet rim, the tightness as it clenched around her fingers. At the same time, her pussy kept dripping. He took the third photo as she bent over even further and pulled her labia apart with both hands, so that he had the completely exposed, wet entrance and the hard, throbbing clitoris right in front of the lens. Everything shaved, everything gleaming, everything for him.

She heard the shutter click three times in a row. His breathing was heavy. The bulge in his pants pressed clearly against the fabric. She held the position for another moment, letting him see everything he wanted—the twitching pussy, the slightly open asshole, the wetness that had by now left a small stain on the floor.

She was just turning around, still on all fours in the cramped stall, her ass thrust out toward him, her smooth-shaven pussy dripping wet and open. He held the cell phone in one hand, his gaze greedily fixed on her slit. With her free hand, she reached back, found the hard, thick cock in his pants, and felt the heat and tension through the fabric. She unzipped his fly, wrapped her fingers around the hot, throbbing shaft—and at that moment, he winced. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and a hoarse moan escaped him as her hand closed tightly around him and stroked firmly upward once.

Then she was on the couch. Just another dream.

The hard carpet of the locker room had vanished. In its place was the soft upholstery of her sofa. Her own hand lay between her legs, two fingers deep inside her dripping wet pussy, her thumb pressed firmly against her swollen clitoris. At the first conscious touch, the first real pressure, her whole body shuddered. The orgasm came so intensely and suddenly that she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming out loud. Her labia contracted rhythmically around her fingers; clear moisture ran down the back of her hand onto the couch cushions; the insides of her thighs twitched uncontrollably. Her asshole pulsed along with it, as if it were still feeling the memory of his gaze and his breath.

She remained lying there, legs spread, her wet fingers still inside her, staring at the ceiling. Her body refused to settle down. The arousal sat deep within her, throbbing, demanding. Her pussy was so wet that it made an audible squelching sound as she slowly pulled her fingers out. A thick, glistening thread stretched between her labia and her fingertips before snapping and dripping onto the fabric. Her clitoris was hard and hypersensitive; every breeze made her flinch.

The desire was unbearably clear. She wanted to suck that cock. To take that thick, hard shaft—which she’d only briefly held in her hand in her dream—deep into her mouth, press the head against her palate, and inhale his scent and taste. She wanted to feel it stretch her throat, to hear him moan as she moved it up and down, slick with saliva and glistening. And she wanted to swallow his cum—hot, salty, in gushing waves, until it ran from the corners of her mouth and she lapped it back up with her tongue. At the same time, she wanted to present her naked body to him. To kneel before him, spread her legs wide, pull her labia apart with both hands, reveal her wet, shaved pussy and her twitching asshole, until he couldn’t help but reach for her.

She slid her hand back between her legs, slowly stroking the smooth, slippery skin, circling her clitoris without touching it directly. The second orgasm was already building—slower this time, but just as intense. In her mind, he was still there—the shy thirty-year-old from the mall, the virgin type who had stared at her through the gap in the curtain and to whom she had shown everything.