Anyone who has served as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints knows that for the duration of your mission you are never truly alone. You are assigned a companion and that companion is always with you. You live together, you sleep in the same bedroom (separate beds), you work all day together and you’re never allowed to be out of each other’s sight. Many find it comforting, and I suppose it is. But I found it stifling sometimes.

My favorite part of every day was in the mornings. Our alarm would go off at 6:30 am sharp, every day. I have always been an early riser and so I’d be up and in the bathroom before my companion had even stirred. I’d shower and go through my morning routine. Some time close to 7 I’d come out wrapped in a towel and my companion would take her turn. All of them were secretly grateful for my eagerness to be awake. It gave them an extra 30 min. I had one companion who would take FOREVER to get ready. And I was grateful for that. For the nearly 1 hour she was prepping herself, I was alone. She’d sing in the shower and while she was doing her hair. And I? I could do whatever I want. Not that I had any great thing in mind. I just wanted to be alone.

My mission was pleasantly warm all year round, but it had tropical humidity and so it was vital to keep my “down there” happy and fresh. So usually I’d lay out on my bed and let myself air out. Not the sexiest of poses I’ll grant you, but essentially necessary unless you wanted a raging yeast infection.

We lived in the city, in a collection of tall concrete apartment buildings. Ours had two rooms, one large living room that was also our bedroom, a kitchen that made kitchens on campers look luxurious a small bedroom just large enough to fit our luggage and then one bathroom in the hall. We had a small balcony and across the balcony was 50 yards until the next apartment building. Still, I had always thought that there was an illusion of privacy.architecture-balcony-buildings-1298965

That morning as I lay on my bed, naked as the day I was born I looked directly across and saw a young man on his balcony. He was probably 20 years old and was smoking his morning cigarette. He was staring straight at me. Could he see me? My heart plunged in my chest and I instinctively covered myself up with the towel. I got dressed. That morning as we did companionship study, my cheeks were flushed and I felt uncommonly . . . excited. I wasn’t embarrassed. I was titillated. Had he seen me? It was then in my mind I realized that it didn’t matter if he’d seen me or not. I wanted him to. The thought thrilled me.

That night I could hardly sleep. I was building scenarios in my mind about what to do the next morning. I would try and make myself visible again if that young man was still there. 6:30 couldn’t come quick enough. I showered and this time I made sure I was fully done up before I left. Hair and makeup in place. I came out in my towel and sat on my bed while my companion went about her plodding routine.

There was no sign of anyone across the way. I couldn’t see into their apartment. I took this as proof that I must not have been seen either. Disappointed I took off my towel anyway. I miss the way I looked back then. This was back before I had children. Yes, my breasts are larger now, but my stomach was flatter and had no stretch marks. I had a perfectly pretty little slit between my legs, not one that had born four children. I was white in a country where white people were rare. My skin is best described as milky and my large pink nipples are so pale they’re almost invisible. I liked looking at myself. I still do. I stood up and walked to the window. I could see my reflection in the window. I loved how feminine I looked. I looked through the window and there was the young man. He wasn’t smoking a cigarette this time. He was wearing blue brief-style underwear and he was rock hard. Even from my position across the way, I could make out every detail of his erect penis. He was tall and slender and brown with beautiful black hair. His penis was thin but very long. It strained against the silky fabric of his briefs. He was displaying himself for me. I just stood there and we stared at each other. I felt utterly exposed. Beyond naked. I wanted to do more, but I was frozen in place. I eventually found the ability to gently caress my breasts with my hands. I was utterly aroused. I literally felt juices running down my leg. Until I heard the bathroom door open.

I panicked and rushed back for my towel. My companion was shocked to find me fumbling naked for the towel. I yelped pathetically as I tried to cover my self. My heavy breasts flailing around most undignified. I was busted! Except, I wasn’t. Whoever that man was, he’d gone back inside. My companion knew I aired myself out and so I tried to explain it away as best as I could. It worked. I was just embarrassed.

That night I touched myself in my bed. My companion’s gentle snores from across the room were the only sound. I bit down on the blanket so that I wouldn’t moan out loud. I was slick and swollen and ready. I must have climaxed five times that night. My young man wasn’t there every day. But he was there often. I’d casually expose myself to him. Never putting on a show, but letting him see everything. I wanted to go out on the balcony and hang my breasts over the side for him to see. But I was too afraid. At least for then. I eventually worked up the courage, but that’s a story for another time.  


2 thoughts on “Exposed

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