My Private Rebellion

It certainly didn't look like what I expected. Of course I didn't know what a normal pussy looked like, but mine had layers of folds and thin reddish hair. In the little mirror I could see my vagina, where guys wanted to shoot their sperm and where babies came out, and I saw the other parts and it all seemed very musty and sort of spooky. I didn't like feeling ignorant, and so I went on the Internet and read about it. I learned about all the parts, and what they do, I even used my finger on my clitoris to give myself an orgasm. In fact, there was about a two-week period where I was a little obsessed with that. Every night in bed I would make myself come and it made me feel independent and knowledgeable.

The ride home after my first day without panties was frightening. I was nearly overcome with the power of it. I had an instant in the train where I wondered if I was going insane. It would be the perfect psychiatric symptom, wouldn't it, a professional, well adjusted woman flashing her pussy on the train. Like a Tourette thing, but instead of yelling "Cunt! Pussy!" I would show people my cunt, my pussy. I sat in a good seat for revealing it, the front seat in a section, facing a bunch of passengers, but I kept my knees together. My bare pussy did not get wet going home, it was comfortable and happy and I was, too. A couple of times I shifted in my seat just because I could, letting my legs open a few inches but there was no target and nobody noticed.

My evening routine usually involved watching a little television and talking on the phone with my mom. That night I wanted to talk to her about my cunt but of course I did not. It was hard to fall asleep later. I thought of masturbating to take the edge off but I did not want to confuse two things. Sex was sex, it was about physical pleasure and emotional connecting. This wasn't that. This was rebellion, rejection of people and their stupid demands. It was a secret mischief. My pussy was my power and my destiny, and it was mine to enjoy as I wished.

Eventually after that first phase of discovery my little pleasure box retreated to the background. It returned to being a normal part of my body, an ordinary thing, and I was fine with it; it just meant the temperature of my life was a little higher than it used to be, and I got used to it. I never wore panties after that. I played with myself at my desk. After a few days I discovered my pussy did not get wet on the drive to the station, but it did tend to moisten when I actually got on the train. This secret in itself felt powerful to me. No one knew that the girl with the dirty-blonde hair had a wet cunt that was throbbing with excitement under her Kohl's dress.

As I got used to the experience I began to tease a little bit. A man in a brown suit was sitting across from me, looking bored. Sometimes he looked out the window but there is nothing there except the dirty walls of a tunnel. He looked at the other people on the train but did not stare. He was not interested in them, only looking to break up the boredom. So I began teasing him. When he was looking in my general direction, but not right at me, I spread my knees quickly, opening and closing them like a trap. I was holding up the newspaper but could see that his eyes immediately darted to my legs. I lowered the paper and looked at him and he looked away, pretending that nothing had happened.

Then I did it again. He was looking down the aisle of the car, right past me, and I opened my legs, pointing the view where he and only he could see up into the wetness in the far end of the dark valley under my skirt. This time he did not notice right away, it was several seconds, and then as soon as his eyes saccaded toward my pussy I closed off the view. Reading my paper, showing no sign of awareness of him. He shifted in his seat and it occurred to me that he might be getting a hard-on. I had never thought about a man becoming aroused by this, but as I pondered it I found I enjoyed the idea very much. I played with him mercilessly. Every time he would look away I would open my legs pretty wide, offering him a view of my bare pussy, which was now dripping with its happy honey, but as soon as he looked in the right direction I locked him out again. He never really got a good look at it. I might have done this to him ten times as we traveled in tunnels under the city, and when he stood to get off the train I could see that he did indeed have an erection. He discreetly pushed it down with the back of his hand and shuffled off the train with the other zombies.

I tired of that game after a week or so, teasing strangers in both the morning and evening commutes. It turned out that men are like puppets. I could control them just like pushing a button or pulling a string.

Women will look, too, but it is different. They look because they want to judge you. I found it a lot harder luring women with the blink-and-it's-gone pussy flash. I would aim my shot at a woman and wait, and sometimes after a couple of minutes she would notice. I would see her eyes glance at my legs and then she would look me over, judging my clothing, my age, I'm sure they were measuring up the kind of handbag I carried, my nails.

One morning there was a very sexy woman on the train facing me. I have no real lesbian tendencies but anyone would have thought this girl was adorable. She was dressed professionally but had a kind of relaxed air about her, a few loose strands of hair, a half-smile resting face. I made myself fantasize about her, I pictured her tongue licking my pussy -- no woman has ever done that, and it wasn't that I wanted her to, I just wanted to push my mind to think it. I opened my legs and gave her a view, and she tuned in to it immediately. There was no one near her so I spread my knees further so her view was complete, I think she could clearly see the tender pink folds of my bare pussy under there. She stared for a second and then looked at my face and gave me the biggest, friendliest smile.

Then she grinned to herself for the rest of her trip. A half-dozen stops later she stood to leave the train and came over to me. She bent down and said, "Ooh, you are bad. I love it." Then she disappeared. For a second I thought maybe I had fallen in love with her, the connection was so good and so pure and beautiful. She was a thin young African-American woman in a tailored suit and tennis shoes. I always watch for her on the train now. I never see her, but I would like to. Maybe she could sit beside me, and we could open fire on these failed human beings, mowing them down with double-barreled pussy power, like gangsters on a crime rampage. Afterwards we might celebrate, with tongues. I don't know, maybe not. Probably not. But it would be fun.

At work I found that it was pleasing for me to fold the hem of my skirt up onto my lap so that my cunt was exposed to my own view under the desk while I worked. When I would hear footsteps coming down the hallway I would look up and experience an instantaneous cheap thrill if it was someone I did not know. Sometimes they looked in through my open door, usually not. And sometimes it was someone I did know. Sometimes someone would come into my office to talk to me about something. It was curiously normal-feeling to sit with my pussy out in the open air, my most vulnerable and powerful parts exposed, talking to someone about a line in the budget or some procurement screw-up or something. I felt like a living human being, a vibrant part of nature, even in a sterile office building with lifeless robotic coworkers.

That's where I am now. I know this will go further, but I have no idea where. I will remain an invisible, anonymous little mouse in public. I will have a secret life. Sometimes I will overpower strangers with the pure radiance of the mystery of my sexuality, I will turn them to pulp and then walk away as if nothing had happened. I will not get caught, or be accused of anything. I will not fuck any of these zombies in their bad-fitting suits, at most I might send them into the office with a wet spot on their slacks. I think about the woman with the tennis shoes, and the idea of teaming up. Maybe this will go that way. Maybe we will change the world.