This is a story from my college days. One summer evening, I was holed up in my dorm room, a math textbook splayed open on my desk, pages crammed with equations and notes I was supposed to memorize for an upcoming exam. I was 19, studying to be a teacher, with blonde hair spilling over my shoulders and blue eyes usually buried in books rather than meeting people’s gazes. My name’s Stella, and though I’ve been told I’m pretty—slim, with long, graceful legs and a cute, innocent face, I’ve always been shy. Painfully so. I’d blush at the slightest direct comment, which only made me clumsier around others.

That night, boredom hit hard. My friends were all busy—Emma was at the movies with her boyfriend, Sophie was at dance practice, and Mia was helping her mom in the garden. Left alone, my mind started to wander, and I remembered my stepdad, David, mentioning a barbecue at his place just outside town in a quiet suburban neighborhood. I’d been there a couple of times before—once for his birthday and once with Mom for a sauna night—so I had a rough idea of what to expect. I slipped on a white sundress that grazed just above my knees, slid into sandals, and let my hair fall loose to catch the breeze. I grabbed a small backpack, tossing in my phone, some lip gloss, a pair of white bikini bottoms, and a matching top—just in case, since David had a sauna and a hot tub—and headed out.

David’s house was a sprawling two-story place, surrounded by a wide lawn with tall trees and neatly trimmed bushes. Similar homes flanked it on both sides. The back terrace was wooden and cozy, with a hot tub that had always seemed oddly inviting to me. It was a 20-minute walk, and when I arrived, the yard was already buzzing with people.

The smoky scent of the grill filled the air, laughter and music spilling from every corner. Most of the guests were David’s friends, in their thirties, loud, and confident. David spotted me, pulled me into a hug, and introduced me to a few people, but I felt out of place amid their boisterous chatter.

Then I saw him—a guy who stood out. He was about 35, with dark, slightly messy hair and a charming look. Broad shoulders filled out his dark T-shirt, and his jeans hugged his athletic frame just right. He was by the grill, a beer bottle in hand, laughing with someone in a deep, steady voice. When he noticed me, his gaze locked onto mine, so direct it set my cheeks on fire.

He walked over and said, “So, you’re David’s stepdaughter, huh? I’m Ryan.” His voice was low, confident, leaving no room for doubt. I nodded, mumbling something, my shyness kicking in full force. He handed me a beer, resting his hand briefly on my back to guide me forward—his fingers warm and firm, the touch lingering on my skin.

“Come sit, I’ll fix you something good to eat. Where’s your boyfriend, letting you show up here alone?” he added, flashing a sly smile, his eyes never leaving mine.

My face burned hotter. “I… I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said softly, taking the beer even though I rarely drink. Ryan didn’t let up.

“No way. A gorgeous girl like you, single? I don’t buy it,” he teased, flipping meat on the grill and tossing me glances. “You better watch out—there are all kinds of guys here who might try to get close.” He chuckled, but his boldness made me feel a mix of unease and something else I couldn’t name.

He came over once, sat close, and asked, “So what do you do when you’re not at barbecues? Do you study all the time, or do you have a fun side?” His gaze was piercing, and I stammered something about math classes. He laughed and said, “You’re too cute to be stuck in books all day. You should have more fun—if you want, I could show you how.” His hand brushed mine as he handed me a plate, and that fleeting touch sent my pulse racing. I didn’t know where to look, but his words stuck with me.

As the night wore on, the party got rowdier. Laughter grew louder, music thumped harder, and my head started to buzz—maybe from the beer, maybe from Ryan’s stares. I needed a break. I decided to slip away to the back terrace. It was spacious, wooden, and bordered with a low railing, with the hot tub built flush into the deck. I glanced around—it was empty.

The others were on the far side of the house or inside, their noise a distant hum. I figured I’d relax in the hot tub. I went inside, changed into my white bikini, grabbed a towel, a half-empty bottle of wine, and a glass, and then headed back to the terrace. I sat on the tub’s edge, legs dangling, and took a deep breath. The quiet was soothing, just the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Then I heard footsteps. I looked up, and there was Ryan, standing at the edge of the terrace, beer in hand, that teasing smile back on his face.

“Well, look who’s hiding out here,” he said, strolling closer. “What’s this, Stella? Too much noise at the party, or are you looking for… something more exciting?” His tone was playful, and he sat beside me, closer than before. My heart sped up.

“I… just wanted a little quiet,” I mumbled. He laughed softly.

“You’re shy, but it’s adorable. You know, you look like you could be a model. Ever thought about getting in front of a camera?”

My cheeks flamed. “No, I… I’m not like that,” I said quietly. He tilted his head, eyes locked on mine.

“I don’t believe you. Hold on, let’s take a picture—for keeps.” He stood, pulled his phone from his pocket, and raised it, not waiting for me to agree.

“Oh, I don’t know…” I started, but he cut me off. “Don’t worry, you look great. Just sit there, turn toward me—perfect, stay like that. One snap, I promise.” His confidence was contagious, and I nodded despite my nerves. I was on the terrace floor, legs tucked awkwardly, and when he said, “Smile,”

I managed a shy one. He took the photo, checked his screen, and nodded. “See? Told you—like you stepped out of a magazine.”

Then he said, “Give me your number; I’ll send you the pic.” I was so flustered, I rattled off my number without thinking. He sent it, my phone pinged, and he grinned slyly. “There you go, something to remember me by. I’ll leave you alone now, back to the party.” He turned, gave me one last look, and disappeared toward the house.

I was alone again, heart still pounding. It hit me that he’d smoothly gotten my number, and I blushed at how easily I’d handed it over. The others were still across the house or inside. It was around eight, dusk just settling in, the garden lights and the hot tub’s golden glow casting a cozy vibe. I noticed the terrace door was slightly ajar, which was good—I’d hear if anyone came. I slipped into the tub.

The water was warm, bubbles massaging my legs and thighs, gliding over my skin. I poured a glass of wine, sipped slowly, and let my eyes drift. Dusk deepened, the garden lights softened the scene, and the tub’s glow lit the water around me. The breeze rustled the trees, blending with the faint bass of music from inside. Glasses clinked, someone laughed loudly, and the contrast with my quiet moment in the tub felt calming. But then Ryan crept back into my mind—his teasing smile, the way he’d eyed my body in that bikini, and his words: “You look like a model.” A restless heat stirred in me, my pulse quickening, and I didn’t know why it hit me so hard.

I took another sip of wine, feeling it loosen me up, and let my hand slide over my stomach, tracing my skin lightly. My breathing grew heavier. The bubbles swirled around me, cool air prickling my skin, but my body was warming. Ryan’s gaze flashed in my head, his words echoing, and it made my cheeks flush. I glanced at the door—it was cracked open, voices distant. No one was coming. My hand drifted lower, brushing over my bikini bottoms, grazing lightly through the fabric. It felt accidental, but the sensation was so good I didn’t want to stop.

My finger moved slowly, exploring, each touch sending a shiver through me. A warmth bloomed in my core, and the thought that everyone was so close, that someone could step onto the terrace any second, ignited something deeper. It was risky and wrong, but I couldn’t shake it. I sipped more wine, trying to cool off, but it only fueled the feeling. I told myself, "Just a little, that’s all."

I slipped my hand under the waistband, fingers finding bare skin, warm and sensitive. I moved slowly, circling gently, and my body responded instantly.

I paused, glanced at the door, heart racing, listening—voices stayed far off; no one approached. I continued, the pleasure building inside me. Every few moments, I’d stop to listen, but the tension and excitement in me kept growing. I teased myself like that for over ten minutes, then felt I couldn’t stop—the urge was too strong. My other hand slid under my bikini top, finding my breast, already sensitive and firm. I kneaded it slowly, rolling my nipple between my fingers, and it made my breath catch. My body heated up, nipples pressing against the bikini fabric. I stopped again, checked the door—someone inside yelled, “David, where’s the barbecue sauce?”—and I froze, hand still inside my bottoms, pulse hammering. But no one came. I waited, holding my breath, and when it was quiet, I kept going.

I grabbed the wine glass, took a gulp, feeling it relax me further, and let my hand move again. This time, I was bolder, fingers circling faster, pressing harder. I breathed deeply, trying to stay silent, but it was getting harder. I pushed my bikini bottoms down to my thighs, giving my hand more room. The bubbles hid my movements, making me braver. I slid one finger inside, slowly, feeling my body tighten around it. My other hand squeezed my breast, tugging at my nipple, and soft moans escaped my lips, barely a whisper.

I knew it was dangerous—if someone walked in, I’d be caught—but Ryan’s voice in my head, his teasing “You should have more fun; want me to show you how?” drove me on. I stopped again, checked the door, listened—silence—and went back to it. I added a second finger, moving faster, in and out, my hips starting to rock in the tub, matching my rhythm. The water splashed around me, muffling the surrounding sounds, which was risky—I couldn’t hear well if anyone was coming. My moans grew louder; I pressed my lips together to stifle them, but it was tough.

I pictured Ryan opening the door, stepping in, seeing me like this—bikini bottoms at my thighs, legs slightly parted, hand moving fast down there, gasping. “What are you doing, Stella?” he’d whisper, and the thought made my heart race harder. The danger—everyone so close, anyone could walk in—turned me on even more.

My fingers sped up, alternating—slow, then fast again. My hips lifted from the water, making waves, water spilling over the tub’s edge. My other hand worked my breast, pinching and pulling, the pleasure surging wildly.

A creak came from the terrace door. I froze, yanked my hand out, pulled my bottoms up, and held my breath, staring at the door. Someone shouted something inside, but the terrace stayed empty. I waited, heart pounding, and when it was quiet again, my hand slid back down. I started cautiously, touching lightly through the fabric, but the feeling was too intense to resist. My fingers slipped back inside my bottoms, deeper, and I couldn’t hold back—I moved faster.

I tugged my bottoms down again and started kneading my breast, nearly freeing it from the bikini top, one breast almost completely exposed. My fingers moved frantically, in and out, my body tensing. My hips rose and fell, following my hand’s rhythm, and the water splashed louder than I wanted.

My moans grew bolder—“aah, aah”—and I couldn’t fully silence them, struggling to focus on the door. My eyes fluttered shut with pleasure, moans rising as my hand worked furiously between my legs. I needed to release this tension. I pulled my other hand from my top and pressed it to my mouth, trying to muffle the sounds. I imagined Ryan stepping onto the terrace, seeing me, bottoms down, one breast bare, hand racing, face flushed, moaning. That image—his eyes on me—pushed me over the edge.

My breathing turned ragged, and my moans were too loud. The orgasm hit me like a wave—my body shook, hips lifting high, and I let out muffled “aah, aah” sounds, too loud despite my hand. As the tremors faded, I hurriedly fixed my top, pulled up my bottoms, and tried to steady myself. I glanced at the door, panting, thanking God no one had come. My heart still pounded, and I was stunned at myself—how had I let it go so far, doing something so reckless in public? How had I risked getting caught like that, unable to control my arousal?

I reached for the wine bottle to take a sip, and then I saw it—the neighbor’s house, just 20 meters away. On the second-floor balcony stood a man, staring right at me. He was about 40, with short gray hair, wearing a dark shirt, hands on the railing. My stomach dropped. Had he seen me? Had he been there the whole time? From that balcony, he had a clear view of the lit-up tub. Shame flooded me—how had I not noticed him? Then he smiled and gave a thumbs-up.

My face burned, shame swallowing me whole. I scrambled up, grabbed my towel from the railing, and bolted through the kitchen, up the stairs to the guest room. My heart pounded so hard I thought it’d burst. I threw myself onto the bed, pulled the covers over my head, and tried to breathe. How had I let myself get to that point? Bikini bottoms down, breast exposed, hands moving, moaning—and someone had seen it all. Maybe even heard my moans. I buried my face in the pillow, cheeks blazing, heart refusing to slow. I’d done something I never imagined doing in public, and now there was a witness.

I stayed there overnight, too mortified to go downstairs. I fell asleep with a tangle of emotions, my heart heavy with shame. Morning came, and I woke still haunted by what I’d done, how Ryan’s influence had led me to that moment. I crept downstairs; David was in the kitchen, cleaning up the party mess. I decided to skip breakfast, grabbed a coffee, and just wanted out. As I headed for the door, David was on the terrace. I stepped out to say goodbye, then looked up. Shock hit me—my knees wobbled, and my face flushed. There, with David, was the same neighbor.

“Stella, come meet our new neighbor, Mark,” David said. Mark stepped closer, extended his hand, and smiled slyly.

“Hey, Stella.”

I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t refuse the handshake, and he clasped my hand. The image flashed—me in the hot tub, bottoms down, breast bare, hand moving, moaning. My heart thundered. I mumbled a shaky “hi.”

He held my hand longer than needed and said, with that sly grin, “Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

I wanted to disappear. “I gotta go,” I muttered.

He let go, and I rushed back inside, out the front door, and onto the street. My heart raced, breathing frantically. My face burned—I was furious at myself for landing in that mess and, worse, facing him now. Yet that image—what Mark had seen from his balcony—kept creeping back, stirring shame that wouldn’t fade and, confusingly, a flicker of excitement. It was a chaotic, maddening feeling, and I just wanted to get home, away from it all, and forget it as fast as I could. Since that night, I’ve made a point to avoid David’s place when I can, terrified of running into that neighbor who knows my secret.