The Accidental Exhibitionist

"I want to show you off."

It took a second for the words to sink in. "I've always wanted to show you off," he continued in a hoarse whisper, "every time you've worn your little skirts I've had this fantasy."

"What do you mean?" she asked cautiously. The elevator jerked to a stop on the third floor. Two people waddled in, one giving the flushed couple a curious glance. He waited until the doors had shut, then cupped his hand and mouth over her ear and whispered very quietly, "I want you to let someone see up your skirt. You know, give them a show."

There was silence as the elevator stopped on the ground floor. They walked out hand in hand. She thought about That Guy, about the others seeing her on the steps, the wind blowing her skirt up, letting herself show at the office. And then she heard herself say, "Okay." And she knew then that the panties could wait.

The mall was a sprawling downtown mess of glass elevators, escalators, food courts, and clothing stores. At the far end was a department store, and he led her there. She was nervous, self-conscious and still unused to the feeling of just the miniskirt, riding high on her bare thighs, moving with the swaying of her hips, carried along only by the belt which held it up on her waist. The only sure thing about its presence was the two inches of waistline, snug against her. The feeling of the belt securing the skirt was the last thing she could feel until the soles of her heels on her feet. It had now been a little over two hours that she'd gone without panties. The occasional brush of fabric as the hemline swished against one bare cheek or the other, or the sides of her hips reminded her of the flaring, pleated hem. How the hem could, with the wrong movement, betray how bare she was underneath.

He was leading her towards an escalator.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he paused to glance at an instant photo booth by the foot of an escalator.

"Menswear," he replied casually, turning from the booth and stepping onto the escalator. She looked over her shoulder at shoppers stepping on behind them, and still others behind them. Her hand moved reflexively to her skirt hem behind her. He circled his arm around her waist, casually collecting her protective hand on the way and holding it firmly and gently, affectionately, to her side. She stared straight ahead, her face hot and red, her thighs becoming slowly wetter. As the escalator rose, so the view up the back of her skirt grew, her bare tush and vulva on unceasing display for those below her. As the escalator rose higher, so the feeling of nothingness under her skirt grew. It seemed the longer she was on the escalator, and the higher she rose above the floor below, the more bare she felt. And the more bare she felt, the more she felt the wetness coming, the buzzing in her ear, and the surge in the pit of her stomach. Until finally they reached the top, and the moment passed, and she began to breathe more slowly. When she refocused her eyes, they were staring at ties.

"Omigod," she said to him, "What are you doing to me? I'm enjoying this. I shouldn't be enjoying this."

"Why not," he said, "I am," and started pulling her skirt up. She slapped him away. He smiled and looked around casually. Then he said, "You have an admirer. Don't turn around." She froze, and fingered a tie. He turned back to her and said, "Somebody who rode up behind us on the escalator seems to be very interested in the sport coats right behind us." An unassuming middle-aged man fiddled with the rack, absently fingering the anti-shop lifting ink tags and repeatedly flicking his eyes in her direction. First to her shoes, then her skirt, then her legs and then her shoes. Trying to surreptitiously duck his head lower to get a better view up her skirt.

"What do you want me to do?" she whispered.

"Reach over for the tie on the far side of the bin - slowly. And lean forward on one leg." She did as he said, slowly, feeling her skirt ride up and over her cheeks and the air on her wetness.

"What's he doing?" she asked, straightening up again. He looked around in the general direction of their audience. The audience was stunned.

"Staring," he replied. "I want to see what you look like. Do it again." He drifted over behind her to another rack and turned back as she leaned again over the tie display. Her tiny skirt crept up her bare thighs, as if in slow time, her upper thighs gave way to bare cheeks, a flash of wet pink. She extended a bare leg back behind her, for balance, and then straightened up again, holding an impossibly ugly tie.

He went to her, his breath ragged, and grabbed her hand. "Come on," he said.

"Now where are we going?"

"The photo booth. I'm going to burst," he said tightly.

"This sure didn't last," she said.

The photo booth was empty, waiting and lost amidst the noon rush of shoppers. They ducked in, closed the curtain and he sat down. Plugged a coin into the slot. Pulled her down onto his lap, facing him.

"I want you now, I want to be inside you," he said. She moaned as his mouth found her neck, nuzzling into her collarbone, tracing her jaw with his tongue. She unzipped him, unbuckled him, took him out into her trembling, delicate fingers. His shaft felt warm, soft to the touch, yet rigid, twitching and unyielding. Her sensitive, soft fingertips massaged him lovingly, spreading his lubrication around, firming him up and hard as he could get. His breath was hot on her throat, her blouse coming off one shoulder as he pulled her buttons apart. A hand moving down, pulling free a breast, the hard nipple popping out and the insistent lips closing around it. She arched her head back, felt her skirt being lifted and a hand tracing her wet crease at the back, spreading her moisture down the insides of her thigh. She pulled her bare feet out of her shoes, rested one on his foot.

*Flash* The light popped in the booth as the first photo was taken.

She slid down, down between his parted legs, down onto her knees and took him into her mouth, massaging the tip with her tongue, tracing down the underside and up again, stroking its length with her lips. Her hair fell in tangled strands over her face and around his shaft and she sucked slowly, up and down.

*Flash* The camera popped a second time.

He bit his lip, stifled a groan and pulled her up. She turned around, sat back down with her back to him, and felt it go into her, slowly, its width pushing her open and the friction braking her descent to his pelvis. She arched her back, her mouth open, her eyes closed and made a heavenly, plaintive moan, with a tiny hiccuping gasp at the end. He clamped his hands around her waist and pushed again, causing the same noise to escape her.

*Flash* went the camera, again.

With each slippery thrust he envisioned her wearing her miniskirt all morning, without panties, how open and exposed she'd been, how few inches she'd been away from revealing her secret. How she looked standing in menswear in his favourite outfit, her tiny pleated skirt, blouse and heels. The short hem lifting up the backs of her thighs whenever she had stood on her toes to kiss him. He began to push faster, feeling it gather in him. Everything between them had become sopping wet, the seat, her skirt hem, her legs. She began to reach her climax, her tiny, audible, staccato gasps matching his quick and shorter thrusts. Then she stopped gasping, her eyes rolled up, her mouth opened and twitched, but no sound came out. She arched her feet, then made a small sound at the back of her throat. There was silence as he came in her, and then the sound of exhaling, gasping, and two bodies slumped into each other.

*Flash* The camera took its final picture.

Slowly, she let him slip out of her, feeling him trickle down her thighs. She turned around and kissed him softly, relaxed a moment while he fumbled for a handkerchief.

"That was fun," he said, "We should it again more often."

She opened her mouth to tell him, but thought better of it.

"Feed me," she said instead.

She slipped the photos into her purse on the way out.