Pink-Slit Aquarium: Aged Eyes Feed on Tight Twat Bait
New log entry in 'My Forbidden Sex Diary: Pink Nails & Silver Gods.'
This post is intended as entertainment only for mature audiences. Reader discretion advised. Please simply & kindly skip it if it offends you. Thank you so much! Hugs!
I write erotica novels & short stories. I also publish handbooks on how to train us, young women, for sex and share my sex confessions as a spermivore, spermaholic, and submissive teen (18+) slut. Yes, a slut! And I’m proud of it! Sex is good, and girls who love sex shouldn’t have to hide and pretend to be “pure.” Sex is pure! And naked skin is natural. #FreeTheNipple #FreeThePussy
I've been living in this glass box for five years now, and sometimes I still can't believe I scored such a perfect setup. My little aquarium — that's what I call it, though there's not a single tacky seashell decoration in sight. Just me, swimming naked through my days, on display behind walls of glass that stretch from floor to ceiling on three sides. Perfect for a girl who gets wet at the thought of being watched.
It occurred to me today that I should document why I love this life so much. Maybe it's because another old man stopped by last night, his hungry eyes a few inches from my bedroom window while I pretended to sleep. Or maybe it's because I caught three different joggers this morning slowing down to watch me do naked yoga in the living room, their morning routines suddenly requiring a strategic pause. Whatever the reason, I want to capture this feeling — this delicious exposure — before I get too old for anyone to care about seeing me naked. Twenty-six might be young, but in plaything years, I'm practically middle-aged.
My condo sits just north of Miami, right on the beach, the corner unit on the ground floor of a two-story building. Lucky me. The layout is fairly simple: one bedroom, one bathroom, a small kitchen that opens to a dining area, and a cozy living room. But what makes this place special — what makes it my perfect little fishbowl — are the windows.
God, these windows. They're fucking magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling glass that wraps around three sides of the condo, creating walls of pure transparency. The front faces the beach with windows flanking my entrance door. The side wall of the living room runs along a public beach access path, where beach-goers and locals parade by all day. The bedroom has two glass walls — one that continues the side exposure, and another facing the back street, where joggers, bikers, and dog walkers create a constant stream of potential viewers.
Even the bathroom has a full wall of windows along that back road. My shower? Glass-walled, naturally. Because why stop the show just because I'm washing my bouncy tits or shaving my tight little pussy?
These windows don't just let light in — they erase the boundary between private and public in the most thrilling way possible. I never close the blinds. What would be the point of living beachfront if I can't see the ocean, the palm trees swaying in the breeze, the sunset painting everything gold? At least, that's what I say when someone asks. The truth? I love knowing that at any moment, someone could be watching me fold laundry with my round ass in the air or stretch naked on my yoga mat.
People walking to their own condos in this building have to pass directly in front of my living room windows. Every. Single. One. And the public beach access ensures a parade of strangers all day long, their eyes inevitably drawn to movement behind the glass. Sometimes they pretend not to look — women especially, with their tight, disapproving frowns. But the men? They look. They always look.
I feel like one of those exotic fish in a pet store tank. Except instead of colorful scales, I've got wiggling young tits and a carefully waxed pussy that catches the sunlight when I sit with my legs spread at my kitchen table. I'm not just living in this space — I'm performing in it, a 24/7 peep show for anyone who happens to glance my way.
The first time I walked into this condo, I actually gasped. Not at the modest furnishings, the relatively small living space, or the somewhat dated kitchen, but at those walls of glass that seemed to dissolve the very concept of privacy. I remember standing in the middle of the living room, spinning slowly, taking in the exposure from every angle.
"This is it?" My voice had echoed slightly in the empty space.
I'd moved down from up north, leaving behind a childhood bedroom with a small window and curtains. My daddy's friend — Grandpa Bill, as I now call him — had offered me this place rent-free, a “gift” for the daughter of his old college buddy. Of course, I understood the arrangement even before he spelled it out for me. Nothing's ever really free, especially not for a good-looking (if I may say so myself) blonde. But the price — letting a sixty-something-year-old man use my body during his twice-yearly visits — seemed more than fair for beachfront property.
What I hadn't anticipated was just how exposed I'd be. Those windows. Three walls of perfectly clear glass, revealing every inch of my living space to whoever might walk by. The living room, the bedroom, even the shower — all on display like department store mannequins, except this mannequin breathes and bleeds and fucks.
I remember pressing my palm against the cool glass that first day, feeling the solidity of it. A wall, yes, but a wall that concealed nothing. I could see a middle-aged couple walking their dog outside, and they could absolutely see me standing there in my travel-wrinkled sundress.
"Well, this is going to be interesting." A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.
And it has been. Interesting doesn't begin to cover it. I've created my own little human aquarium where I swim naked through my days, watched by countless eyes while I cook breakfast, work on social media campaigns for my conservative clients (if they only knew), exercise, shower, and sleep. I'm both the pet and the owner, both the observed and the observer, both the prisoner and the one who threw away the key.
The thing is, I've always known this was my natural state. Being looked at. Being desired. Being reduced to flesh and curves and holes. Some women might find that thought depressing, but I find it liberating. There's a perfect honesty in it — no pretense that I'm valued for my mind when it's my body that makes men's breath catch. Cocks don’t get hard because of my ideas! I'm a spectacle, a living art installation exploring the boundaries between public and private space.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.