A few months ago, I told a friend that my hard nipples felt very visible on my quest to buy chocolate. Walking home, having also picked up oh-so-sensible milk, toilet roll and mange-tout, I had a lovely little fantasy that I thought I should share…
I’d thrown on my cute denim shorts on and a thin shirt, but no knickers or bra – though I did have socks on under my Doc Martens. Having been distracted by the new erotica anthology that I’d ordered, I’d realised that the James, who I’d invited over for dinner and pegging, would be here in less than a quarter of an hour and I didn’t have veg or eggs in my fridge for my post-new-dildo-fucking omelette I’d promised him.
Now I’m outside, though, my nipples are hardening in the chilly evening.
By the time I’ve reached the supermarket on the corner, I am extremely aware of them brushing against my shirt, getting harder by the second, and I’m sure everyone else can see them as well. I blush as the tall Janelle-Monáe-lookalike passes me in the bakery section; I’m certain that her smirk is because she can see my nipples through my shirt. I avoid the gaze of the guy behind the checkout as I pay for the peppers, mushrooms and I-have-no-money-this-week-so-these-might-not-be-free-range eggs.
The cold air is invigorating, and along with the anticipation of the sex I’m about to have, I am filled with excitement as I leave the shop. By the time I’ve crossed the road, I couldn’t swear that my nipples are hard because of the cold or because I’m imagining the spanking I hope James will give me after I fuck him. Half lost in the filthy thoughts, it takes me a second to realise that the pretty boy himself has caught up with me.
“Hey,” he says, and a tiny part of me melts at his cocky smirk. “Do you know I can see your nipples through your shirt?”
“Are you complaining?” I ask, smiling up at him.
He leans down, as though to kiss me, but pulls away at the last minute. I pout, and he grins over his shoulder at me as he steps into the alley off the street. When I follow, he pushes me roughly against the brick wall and pins my wrists above my head in a way that makes my cunt wet.
“Everyone could see your hard nipples: you’re such a little slut. If I reach down beneath those sexy little shorts, will I find that you’re wet for me?”
His teasing words make me blush and look down.
“My nipples are hard because it’s cold, and I’m not wearing a bra,” I tell him, and then grab my courage and gaze up at him, “Or panties.”
As I expected, that’s all it takes for him to pounce on me. He still holds my wrists in place, though I playfully struggle, and bends down to kiss me hard. You minx, he growls against my lips as he pulls away, letting go of my wrists so he can slide his hands down my back to test my claim. He squeezes my arse, and rubs one finger quickly in one, two, three light circles of my clit before he stops, laughing at my pleading eyes.
He slips his hands up the inside of my shirt, and his casual, filthy grin makes me shiver. His fingers rub and twist my nipples, and he gives me a gleeful look as he pinches a little bit harder and I let out a tiny whimper.
“Filthy girl,” he whispers, and I grin.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.