My Quiet Little Game
Hi everyone It’s EL here, the one who only ever wants to chat, never meet. I don’t say much in the forums usually, but I felt like sharing this because it still makes me wet when I think about it.
Last month my husband and I took the caravan up to Brits for four nights, parked right on the Crocodile River. Proper old-school South African camping – dust, braai smoke, kids running wild, grandparents in camp chairs watching the river like it owes them money. Afternoon thunderstorms. The site next to us had a big family group: mom and dad in their forties, ouma and oupa, and three or four uni-aged sons. Tents in a half-circle, bakkie loaded with cooler boxes and gazebo, the whole December holiday vibe almost like Hartenbos.
My husband spent most days fishing with the other men or reading, totally unaware of what I was doing. He thinks I’m quiet, shy and a bit un-active, he’s not wrong about the quiet part.
You know I like watching men watch me. I like the moment their eyes change and they realise they’re staring at something they’re not supposed to see. Just like the many episodes on the Gautrain. I like knowing their wives or girlfriends notice too and hate me for it. It’s the only time I feel loud without opening my mouth.
The first morning I left the caravan door wide open while I changed. I stood there naked, bending slowly to pick up clothes from the floor, knowing the angle gave the whole family site a clear view between my legs even though it must have been a bit dark in the caravan's shadow. One of the young guys – early twenties, still wet from the river – stopped dead with his towel over his shoulder. He didn’t move for a long time. His father pretended to fiddle with the braai grid but kept glancing over. Even the oupa adjusted his glasses and leaned forward in his chair, or so I imagined. Nobody said a word. I felt their eyes on my skin and I loved the short lived moment. From that moment they gazed across frequently...
Later I put on my smallest bikini and walked around the campsite like it was normal. Walking to do the dishes, or going to the communal bathroom. Sat on our steps with my knees apart, pretending to scroll on my phone. Every time someone passed I shifted just enough for the fabric to pull tight or slip a little pussy lips. The young ones tried to look without looking. The dads got that stiff, awkward walk when they’re hiding a hard-on. The old man just stared openly, no shame left at his age. Their women shot me looks that could kill – but they were too polite to do anything. One pulled her husband away by the arm like I was contagious.
At the pool, and this place had 3 pools... I made sure the top came loose when I climbed out of the water. One boob out completely, nipple hard from the cold. I took my time fixing it not sure who looked but I could feel I got the attention of many, pretending they weren’t watching. A wife nearby muttered “sies” loud enough for me to hear. I smiled at her and she looked away fast.
Evenings were best. Around the fire circle I’d sit low in my chair, you know those deep bucket cheap kamp-stoelle, legs parted with nothing under my thin sarong that kept riding up. I teased my hubby and he loved it but actually the thrill was to watch the neighbors watch me. The light from the flames showed everything if you looked hard enough – which they all did. I’d catch eyes in the glow: hungry, guilty, angry from the women. I never spoke to any of them. Just watched them watch me until I was soaked and had to go back to the caravan, n later the evening to ride my hubby dry.
No one ever confronted me. No one ever got what they were staring at. They just went back to their tents with the picture in their heads. And I went to sleep smiling in the dark.
That’s all it was – four nights of silent teasing. I loved every second of their frustration.
