When I was young, my family left Pakistan and moved to the UK. Mum started working at the hospital, Dad took a job in an office, and I was their only daughter. Back home there had been so many rules, but here everything felt open and free. I loved it.
My first real friend was Charlotte. We always sat together at the back of the classroom. While the teacher talked, she would slide her hand under my skirt, fingers moving slowly from my knee up the inside of my thigh. The touch made my stomach flutter and my pussy grow warm and wet. It happened once or twice every day. After a while I began doing the same to her, reaching higher until I could feel the soft lace of her panties against my fingertips.
Our secret touches grew bolder. When the last bell rang and everyone else left, we stayed behind. We spread our jumpers over our laps, slipped our hands inside each other’s panties, and rubbed one another’s clits in slow, careful circles. We made each other come quietly, again and again, until our fingers were slick and our breathing ragged.
Charlotte also took me to an adult shop. We wandered the aisles together, looking at every toy on the shelves—vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, and more. I never bought anything for myself, but I often borrowed hers. At her house we would lie on her bed, take turns pressing the buzzing toys against each other’s wet pussies, and explore every new sensation together.
My first encounter with a man happened when I was nineteen. I came home alone one afternoon, went straight upstairs, locked my bedroom door, and lay on the bed. I tugged my leggings down to my knees, slipped my hand inside my panties, and rubbed my clit in quick circles. Two orgasms rolled through me, one after the other, leaving me breathless and flushed.
I had forgotten to close the curtains. Outside, a builder in his 50’s was working on the roof. When I finally looked up, he was staring straight at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. Heat rushed to my cheeks. He had seen everything—my bare pussy, my fingers still wet between my legs. I stayed frozen, leggings tangled around my knees, too embarrassed to move.
He reached down and squeezed the bulge in his work trousers, eyes never leaving mine. The gesture was clear. My heart pounded, but I gave the smallest nod. He scribbled his number on a scrap of paper, folded it, and tossed it through the open window. It landed on the floor beside my bed.
The next day, after college, I met him on the street. He asked if I wanted to sit in his van. I climbed into the front seat. We drove around while he talked, asking if I was interested in some hot time together. I said yes. The day after that, he took me to his bungalow. We went straight to his bedroom, stripped each other, and fucked until both of us were shaking. I met him a few more times after that, always sneaking away for quick, intense sessions whenever we could.
I was never allowed to stay overnight at friends’ houses or come home late, but I found my own ways around the rules. Once I passed my driving test, I started driving far from home. I would park somewhere quiet, change into a short Primark skirt and tight T-shirt, and keep my lingerie from Victoria’s Secret or Ann Summers hidden underneath. Then I would head to a restaurant and look for older men sitting alone.
When I spotted one who seemed single, I would catch his eye and hold his gaze. Under the table I would slowly spread my legs, letting the hem of my skirt ride up so he could see the delicate lace of my panties. Most men looked away at first, then looked back. A few smiled. Those were the ones I approached after they finished their meal.
I dated two of them. The first was in his late fifty, tall, with salt-and-pepper hair. We met twice a week for a month. He liked to finger me in the car before we went inside anywhere, pushing two thick fingers past the crotch of my panties until I was dripping down his knuckles. The second man was older still, late fifties, and very gentle. He would book a hotel room, undress me slowly, and spend a long time licking my pussy before he finally pushed his cock inside me. Both experiences were intense, but finding someone genuine proved difficult. Most wanted quick sex and nothing more.
I still prefer older men. There is something about the way they look at me, the way their hands know exactly where to touch. I keep my body toned at the gym and eat clean, so when I slip out of my clothes they always pause for a moment, eyes moving over my smooth skin and the expensive lingerie I wear just for them.
For extra money and extra thrills, I started selling my used underwear online. After a long night of touching myself I would seal the damp panties in a small plastic bag, take photos, and list them. The buyers always left good feedback, saying the scent was strong . Sometimes the sales led to meet-ups. A man would message saying he wanted the real thing instead of just the scent. I would ignore them
I know I am not pale-skinned like the girls in magazines, but the men I meet never seem to mind. They tell me my dark nipples, the soft curve of my hips, and the way I moan when they push deep inside me are more than enough. My parents still think I am their obedient daughter, but behind locked doors and tinted car windows I live exactly the way I want.
I believe there are many other Pakistani girls doing the same thing—sneaking out, touching themselves, meeting older men, selling their wet panties—while the rest of the world assumes they are quiet and modest. We all find our own ways to feel good.
You can reach me by email :
nailakhan2252@gmail.com
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