Turn 3 of 228
Keep walking, find a busier street. Once there, take even more photos out there in public, where the public can see. Realize it turns you on. Afterwards, go home and deal with it. Pass out on the couch naked from the orgasm.
Lena stands up from the bench and the leggings groan audibly, a seam along her outer thigh shifting with the motion. She doesn't adjust them. She starts walking east, toward the commercial street three blocks over where the restaurants and bars spill light onto the sidewalk and there are always people. Her thighs press together with each step, the translucent fabric showing every contour, and her belly sways gently above the brutal waistband, bare and round between the crop top and the leggings. She can feel herself getting looks. Not everyone — most people are absorbed in their own evenings — but enough. Glances that catch on her midsection and linger a half-second too long before sliding away. She doesn't shrink from any of them.
The commercial street is busy. Friday evening, warm enough to sit outside, and the patios are full. Lena walks slowly down the center of the sidewalk, and the crowd forces people to look at her just to navigate around her body, which takes up more sidewalk than it used to. A man at a patio table looks up from his beer and his eyes travel from her face to her belly to her legs and back. She holds his gaze for a moment, then looks away first, but only because she's smiling. She finds a storefront with a dark window — a closed bookshop — and turns sideways to her reflection. The leggings are nearly transparent under the streetlight. Her belly casts a shadow on the glass. She lifts her phone.
She takes the photo with her hip cocked, one hand resting on the upper curve of her belly, the crop top riding up to show the full round shape of it. She can see people passing behind her in the reflection, blurred and indifferent. She takes another, facing forward this time, the tight fabric of the top stretched across her chest and the leggings leaving nothing to the imagination. A woman walking a small dog glances at her and Lena feels a pulse of something sharp and electric move through her — not embarrassment, not shame, something hotter. She takes a third photo, lower angle, and her hand drifts to the soft underside of her belly where the waistband digs in, and the electric feeling intensifies until she has to press her thighs together.
She walks home faster than she came. The leggings creak with every step and the seam along her thigh is threatening to give, and she doesn't care. The heat between her legs is a persistent, demanding thing that makes her climb the stairs two at a time despite the way her body protests. She locks the apartment door behind her and stands in the hallway, breathing hard, and pulls the crop top over her head. The leggings take longer — she has to peel them down over her hips, and the fabric resists the whole way, clinging to every new curve. When she steps out of them her skin is flushed where the elastic pressed, red lines mapping the borders of her waistband across her belly.
She doesn't make it to the bedroom. The couch is closer and she falls onto it, naked, and the feeling that's been building since the streetlight photo breaks over her in a wave she doesn't fight. Her hands move with a desperate, familiar rhythm, and her body — fuller, softer, heavier than it's ever been — responds in ways it never did before, every new curve and surface a source of sensation she didn't know she could feel. The orgasm is sudden and overwhelming, and she cries out once into the empty apartment, her back arching against the couch cushions.
She lies there afterward, one arm thrown over her face, the other resting on the warm soft landscape of her belly. Her breathing slows. The apartment is quiet except for the refrigerator hum and the distant sound of traffic. Her body feels heavy and spent and enormous and good, and the last thought that drifts through her mind before sleep takes her is the voice, clear and satisfied: *More.* She smiles, and passes out on the couch with the city lights pressing softly through the window.