Show me your tits

 

 Sometimes I act impulsively. I understand that consequences will follow. But often times, I act without thinking things all the way through. Temptation is my siren, and it usually gets the best of me. This was one of those totally spontaneous episodes in my life that will likely have ramifications long afterward. It was no big thing. Actually, it was two little things, my b-cup titties, that started it. "Show me your tits" is a common refrain among young men. Overly-optimistic and expectant, but usually disappointed, they bark these words at women all the time. It was a hot, humid summer day and sundresses were as ubiquitous as mosquitoes. I was no exception. Breezy cotton and spaghetti straps strike a balance of coverage and ventilation that most agree is socially acceptable attire. My dresses tend to be smaller and tighter than most because I’m petite with smaller boobs. Any larger and they would look like I was wearing a burlap bag. When I’m feeling naughty, intent on teasing onlookers and passersby, what would otherwise be a forgettable outfit, can cross way over the line of what’s appropriate, to being risqué, even slutty. It all starts with buttons. Undo one, two, three or more, and a cute sundress can become tantalizing and provocative, if my mood and the audience is right. I already had a head start with my top two buttons undone, allowing the fabric to fold away from my bra-less titties, revealing my cleavage (as if free-range b-cups could be called such have a thing) to just above the bottoms of my boobs, revealing about a third of my breasts, but my nipples were well-covered. The heat and humidity of the day produced a sheen of perspiration on my bare skin, and a tackiness of the fabric, causing it to stick to the contours of my body. It was a sassy look, borderline sexy, yet passably appropriate, keeping the prude police at bay. Exiting my car, in the shopping mall parking lot, I was oblivious to the goings-on around me, people coming and going, cars parking and leaving, trunk lids popping open and slamming down, the murmur of distant conversations, babies crying and toddlers squealing; you know the scene. Remembering my cell phone on the passenger seat, I leaned back into my car, bending over awkwardly, reaching across the driver’s seat to snatch my phone. It looked like a yoga movement, except it wasn’t. Unwittingly, my short dressed hiked up in the back, and my unbuttoned front fell open more than expected, giving anyone looking my way, from the front or the rear, clear views of my ass cheeks, and my pussy lips, encased in a satin thong, or my unrestrained titties including my nipples. A cat-call announced my unintended exposure. Cell phone in hand, a bit disheveled from my impromptu stretch, I adjusted and smoothed my dress, readjusting myself, as I scanned the parking lot for the source of the howl.

 

The command to show my titties ricocheted through the parked cars. I did a pirouette, popping up to my tippy toes, trying to the discern the direction from which the order came. Not wanting to disappoint, I unbuttoned two more, allowing my dress to flap open to below my boobs, halfway down my flat belly. I tugged down on the hem to keep the billowing fabric taut across my boobs. Approving whistles pierced the clamor of the parking lot. Between the call-call, whistles and shouts to expose myself, I narrowed by field of view in search of the perpetrator, or potentially a posse of perps. We locked eyes. The ringleader was surrounded by his adoring minions, a pack of young men, likely on break from school, stood a few parking spots away, dr****g themselves over what I presumed was their car. He gestured like Superman revealing his emblazoned S, silently instructing me to do the same. I debated with myself for a moment, being that I was in the middle of a very public and well-trafficked place. The group stared intently at me, wagering in their minds, about the odds of my compliance. Game on. I slipped my hands under the hem of my dress, hooking my thong with my fingers, tugging it down to my ankles. With a quick bend at the waist and a hop, I went commando. I raised the red satin ribbon above my head, twirling it on my finger like a lasso. Fists pumped the air with approval. I blew them a kiss, spun abruptly, giving them a little tease, as my hem twirled upward for an instant, revealing my neatly trimmed pussy patch, and then proceeded toward the open-air mall. They followed. Quickening their pace, doubling mine, to catch-up to me. Suddenly jittery about my decision to taunt them with a provocative semi-flash, I tugged down on my hem and clutched the open front of my dress tightly in my fist and walked faster to elude the closing pack. But alas, a little too little, and a lot too late. I was encircled by youthful exuberance, but not in a threatening way. Much the way, I imagine celebrities feel when surrounded by overzealous fans, safe and in-control but detained and intent on leaving. Evidently, a toll had to be paid to allow me to pass. The negotiation was one-sided. I handed my scrunched-up thong to the ringleader ceremoniously, presenting it like a tribute, who stuffed it into the front pocket of his shorts, now he had bulges side by side, his erection betraying his arousal. u*********sly nodding his head, as if to inspire mimicry and assent, he motioned with his eyes to my half-opened dress.

 

Sheepishly, unintentionally, with my head bowed slightly in submission, I scanned the parking lot and waited for the flow of people and cars to ebb, then quickly I undid my remaining buttons, pulling the sides of my dress apart, tucking them behind my hips, like a superhero's cape, exposing myself. u*********sly, I parted my legs, shoulder-width apart, and thrust my pelvis forward, tilting it upward, displaying my now obviously moist slit and glistening pussy lips, like the main course of a banquet. Simultaneously, I pushed my firm, upswept little b-cups out and up, my shoulder blades almost touching in my pose, my nipples crinkling into hard little raisins atop my pointed boobs, which bobbed on my heaving chest, as I inhaled and exhaled deeply, trying to calm to increasing anxiety, instinctive shivers revealing my nervousness. Methodically, I turned to each boy in succession, pausing to allow him equal time and enjoyment. Someone suggested that I gather the hem of my dress, hanging behind me, and pull it aside so they could all enjoy the view of my tight ass as well. I complied. Now my dress provided no coverage whatsoever, except for two thin spaghetti shoulder straps leading to a small clump of fabric gathered at the small of my back, wadded-up between my sweaty palms. I felt like a nude statue in a fountain. My heart raced, pounding in my chest and ears like a kettle drum, my skin glimmering in the afternoon sun after a cold sweat burst forth, coating my skin with a sheen, and goosebumps rose in waves across my exposed skin. Cars and shoppers passed by unknowingly, likely more irked by the assemblage blocking their pathways, than suspicious of the strip tease happening nearby, never investigating with more than quick glances and annoyed scowls. My nude orbit concluded, I began buttoning my dress from the bottom up, extending my show to the utmost. The rush of exposing myself subsiding, I realized in horror they had captured images and video of me from every vantage point. I admonished them for recording me without my permission and begged them to delete the images, but they just laughed at me, disregarding my pleas, and started to disperse since the show was presumably over. Panicked by the realization of what I had just done and the thought of who may see the proof of my depravity, I offered the ringleader a trade to spare me the inevitable humiliation and shame. He instructed me to them to a more private place to continue our negotiation. Turn by turn, block after block, my foreboding turned to panic that shot up like a rocket, I nearly passed out from hyperventilation, my sweaty palms darkening my leather steering wheel, as I followed willfully, and increasingly knowingly to my destiny of prolonged servitude. When he pulled into the driveway a few doors down from my own, my heart sank. The gravity of what I had done and price I would have to pay, and probably continue to pay for some time to come, was crushing. He was the son of a neighbor and his posse were likely all from the neighborhood too. I left my dress in the car.