Three hours

Recently, I ended up spending about three hours outside wearing only a jacket, no bra, no thong, no tee, not even shorts. Originally, I had just planned to go down and grab my letter from the mailbox. It was already 11 p.m., so I didn’t expect to run into anyone.

By sheer coincidence, I bumped into my primary school friend, a girl I hadn’t seen since secondary two, even though we lived nearby. My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t planned on being seen like this, and suddenly I was hyper-aware of every curve and movement under the thin jacket.

At first, I hadn’t expected to chat for long, but the conversation quickly turned into a proper catch-up. We even settled down at the nearby bench. As we talked, I realized my mind was split, 50% focused on catching up with her, 50% caught up in the flirty, teasing sensations of being lightly exposed. She told me about her recent marriage, and the conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with laughter and nostalgia. Yet while I was engaged in our talk, I couldn’t ignore the subtle warmth and awareness of my own body, the way the jacket clung to me. Every small shift, every adjustment of the jacket, felt playful and mischievous.

By the time we said goodbye, three hours had passed. What started as a quick trip to grab a letter had turned into a long, private, and playful moment. Throughout the encounter, I could feel a subtle stickiness across my body, especially along my bottom, luckily, I didn’t leak, although I knew I was moist since the start.