The anonymous message haunted me all night. “I saw your beauty today. See you again?” No name, no known number, just a masked number that vanished after reading – like those apps that erase traces. I’d read it ten times, heart pounding, before deleting it myself, scared and excited at once. Who could have seen me? At the park with Max? At the supermarket? At school picking up Emma? The idea that a stranger had watched me, desired me, made me shiver in a way I hadn’t felt in years.
The next morning, routine resumed, but I was different. I took longer to choose my clothes: tight jeans that hugged my hips, a beige cashmere sweater that hinted at the shape of my breasts without a bra. Marc noticed nothing, as usual. He left for work after a quick kiss. The kids ate breakfast in a rush. Sophie gave me a curious look as she came down: “You look pretty this morning, Mom. Got a date or something?” I laughed nervously. “No, just wanted to feel good.” She shrugged and dashed off.
Alone in the house, I walked Max longer than planned. The park was nearly deserted midweek. I walked fast, as if expecting something. My phone buzzed at last. New message, same masked number: “You’re wearing beige today. It suits you divinely. Keep going straight, I’m watching.” My breath caught. I looked around: trees, a few distant joggers, an empty bench. No one seemed to be staring. But I felt heat rising between my thighs. It was real. Someone was watching me, right now.
I kept walking, legs trembling. A third message: “Sit on the bench by the big oak. I want to see you up close.” I obeyed without thinking. Max lay at my feet. I crossed my legs, aware of how my jeans clung to my crotch. The park’s silence was heavy. Then a fourth message: “Spread your thighs slightly. Show me you understand.” Oh God. I looked around again. Still no one. But the excitement was too strong. Slowly, I uncrossed my legs, parting them just enough for the fabric to stretch over my pussy. I could already feel my thong wet.
One last message: “Good girl. Tonight, 10pm, same park. Come alone.” Then nothing. I sat there ten minutes, heart pounding, pussy throbbing. When I stood to go home, my legs wobbled.
All day, I was distracted. At work, I messed up my Excel sheets. Grocery shopping, I caught my reflection in a shop window and found myself sexy, desirable. At home, I made dinner like a robot. Marc came home late, tired. The kids talked about their days. I smiled mechanically, but inside, I burned.
At 9:30pm, I claimed a headache to go to bed early. Marc shrugged: “Rest up, honey.” In the bedroom, I changed. I slipped on a flowing black skirt, a low-cut top, and – madness – took off my thong. Nothing underneath. The cool air on my shaved pussy made me shiver. I put on a long coat to hide it, kissed the kids watching their show, and slipped out quietly, saying I was walking Max one last time.
The park was dark, lit only by a few streetlamps. Max trotted ahead, oblivious to the fire consuming me. I reached the bench by the big oak at 10pm sharp. No one. I sat, thighs pressed together, waiting. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Doubt crept in when I heard footsteps behind me.
A figure emerged from the shadows. A man in his forties, tall, athletic, short salt-and-pepper hair, three-day beard. He wore a dark coat. He sat beside me without a word, thirty centimeters away. Max growled softly but calmed when the man offered his hand.
“You came. I’m Alexandre,” he said at last in a deep, steady voice. “You’re even more beautiful up close, Isabelle.”
I startled. “You know my name?”
He smiled. “I have my sources. And you came without panties, as I hoped.”
I blushed hard but didn’t deny it. He placed a hand on my thigh, just above the knee. His palm was warm, confident. “You’ve been craving it for a long time, haven’t you? Your husband doesn’t touch you enough.”
I didn’t answer, but my legs parted slightly on their own. His hand slid slowly up my bare skin, under the skirt. When his fingers brushed my intimate lips, I moaned softly. I was soaked. He felt it right away.
“Fuck, you’re dripping like a fountain,” he whispered, breath against my ear. “You’re already aching for a stranger.”
He parted my lips with two fingers, finding my swollen clit. He circled it slowly, expertly. I bit my lip to not moan too loud. Max had lain down farther off, indifferent. Alexandre slid one finger inside me, then two, pumping gently while his thumb worked my button. The wet sounds of my pussy echoed in the night.
“Look how you suck my fingers,” he breathed. “You’re starving.”
I panted, hips lifting slightly to meet his movements. He sped up, thrusting deeper, curling his fingers to hit that sensitive spot inside. I felt the orgasm building fast, too fast. “I… I’m gonna…” I stammered.
“Come for me, Isabelle. Come on my fingers like the frustrated little slut you are.”
Those crude words pushed me over. I came hard, pussy clenching around his fingers, a muffled moan into my hand. He kept fingering me through the waves, drawing out the pleasure until I trembled.
When I caught my breath, he pulled out his glistening fingers and brought them to my mouth. Without thinking, I licked them, tasting my own salty, musky juice. He growled in approval.
“This is just the beginning,” he said, standing. “Next time, you’ll suck me. And after… I’ll fuck you like your husband never has.”
He vanished as silently as he’d come. I stayed on the bench, skirt hiked up, pussy still pulsing, mind wrecked. When I finally got home, Marc was fast asleep. I slipped into bed, still shaking with excitement and guilt.
The next morning, a new message: a photo. My skirt pulled up on the bench, thighs spread, his hand inside me – blurred just enough to hide his face. And text: “Memory of your first submission. Tonight, same time. Wear a dress and nothing else.”
I stared at the screen, heart racing. I’d go. I already knew it.
But heading down to make breakfast, I caught Sophie in the kitchen, staring at her phone with a weird smile. She looked up at me, and for a split second, I thought I saw something in her eyes – curiosity? Complicity? No, impossible.
Still, when she said, “Sleep well, Mom? You look… radiant,” a little alarm went off in me.
What if someone else had seen?