I get wet knowing people are looking.

Not just glancing. Really looking. Staring at the way this thick ass fills out a tiny thong, the way my tits press against thin lace, the way my hips sway when I know I’m being watched. That heat in their eyes? That’s my favorite kind of attention.

I’m an exhibitionist, baby… and I love putting on a show.

Picture this: me walking through a quiet park at dusk in a short dress with nothing underneath. Every soft breeze reminds me how exposed I am. I find a bench, sit with my legs just far enough apart, and wait. The first guy who slows down and stares gets a longer look. Maybe I shift, let the dress ride up another inch. Maybe I lock eyes with him while I slowly cross and uncross my thighs.

Or the hotel hallway. Robe loosely tied. I “accidentally” let it slip open just enough when someone walks past. The way their steps falter is better than any compliment.

I love the risk. The almost-getting-caught. The moment someone realizes they’re seeing more than they should… and they don’t look away. That’s when my pulse spikes. That’s when I start getting truly soaked.

Some nights I stand at a high window with the lights on, curtains half-open, wearing only jewelry. I pretend I don’t notice the people below. But I do. I always do. And I put on a private show just for whoever is bold enough to keep watching.

Tell me you’d stop and stare. Tell me you’d stay until I finished.

I want to be seen. I want strangers imagining what they’d do if they had me alone. I want the guy across the street stroking himself later thinking about the way my body looked under those streetlights. I want the risk, the heat, the slow burn of being completely on display.

And when I finally get somewhere private after a night of being watched? I touch myself to the memory of every pair of eyes that lingered. That’s my favorite kind of aftercare.