It’s not a word most people would associate with anything at all positive, but the delicious discomfort that comes with supreme sexual frustration, to me, is bliss. Squirming in a chair, completely clothed, shifting subtly in an attempt to stimulate yourself when you know you can’t?
But one can only take so much.
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. I have to be stealthy. Discretion is, and always has been, key. If there’s one thing I’ve told myself, it’s that I’ll not allow my insatiability to cut into the well- deserved rest of my significant other.
I have learned, over the years, that I’m not too terribly adept at being quiet but, tonight, a spare washcloth helps with that. I clench one between my teeth to stifle my near-feverish moan of relief the moment I begin touching myself. I’m hardly comfortable – the toilet seat is uneven, the floor cold and clammy beneath my bare feet, but at this particular juncture, I could care less.
My cotton nightgown bunches at my waist as my hand nestles between my thighs with familiarity. This intimacy, this indulgence, is as second nature to me as breathing. My hands belong between my thighs, driving me to peak after illustrious peak until I’m breathless and completely spent. I’ve long learned that there is no man more versed in my pleasure than me, and that acceptance makes me even more wanton when I’m alone.
I’m so worked up that the slightest contact makes my thighs clench. The slide of my fingers against my deliciously slick slit makes my breath catch and my heart stutter in my chest. It’s good. Almost too good.
And I’ve barely begun.
I spread my legs slightly, letting my head fall back as two fingers circle my entrance. My thumb indents against my clit with anxious pressure and a soft, keening sound spills from my throat, muffled by the cloth in my mouth. The sensation is electric, skittering down my nerve endings to flood my lower belly. My muscles are wound so tight that I want to drive myself relentlessly towards completion – hard strokes of my thumb and deep strokes of my fingers that make me shudder and come almost immediately.
Somehow, I manage to refrain.
Instead, I press one my index finger in, slowly, savoring the agonizingly languid slide of the digit past clenching female muscles.
My thumb circles my clit rhythmically, and my teeth clench harder against the moans that threaten. My free hand raises to pinch an erect nipple through the thin material of my nightgown and a soft cry is lost in damp terrycloth.
I wish my fingers weren’t mine. I wish they were rougher and more calloused. Punishing and cherishing all at once. When another joins the first, my hips buck eagerly against my own intrusion, wanting and needing more. My eyes flutter shut as my thumb increases its pace.
Yes, like that.
“I’m not done with you, princess.”
The line pops into my head, unbidden, and I groan as the fantasy unfolds in my mind: Clutching desperately at a headboard until the intricate wood pattern is imprinted on my palms as a wicked tongue between my thighs has it’s intricate way with the tenderest parts of me. I’d try to escape. Twist and writhe – attempt to draw myself up and away from blinding, impossible pleasure.
And I’d fail.
A strong grip on my hips tugs me southward, pins me firmly in place. “Where are you going? I’m not done with you, princess. Far from it.”
The mental image is enough to make me shudder violently, plunging my fingers even deeper into my sopping cunt. God, yes. I want to come. I want to be forced to come until my body is heavy with exhaustion, physically incapable of more than panting and trembling.
A talented tongue would be just the thing. A relentless, talented, eager tongue along with a grip so hard it leaves visible bruises on my hips for days to come.
“Fuck.” The epithet escapes me, half-audible, as I drive myself closer and closer to my own climax. By this point, I’m alternatively pressing and pinching my clit, reveling in the way pleasure zings down my spine to make my entire lower half clench in anticipation of more. Swallowing thickly, I force myself to calm enough to stop for a full thirty seconds. Reaching blindly towards the sink, I take up my favorite, nine-inch, purple glass dildo and the leopard print vibrator at it’s side.
After weeks of acquaintance, they’re the best of friends. Fric and frac, as it were.
By this time, I’m too impatient to take things slowly. I jam the purple phallus in deep, past the sticky mess on my thighs and outer lips, to the core of me, the resulting sensation drawing a yelp of shocked, gratified pleasure from me. The vibrator finds its home atop my clit at at it’s fourth setting, neither too intense nor too languid.
I’m close within seconds. Achingly close.
I begin to pump the dildo in and out of my greedy passage, savoring the wet, salacious sounds my pussy makes as it’s filled.
Like a butter churn.
A breathless laugh escaped me. Yes, exactly like that. Sloshing. Wet. Milky-sweet.
I increase my intensity. Every thrust of the dildo is now pleasure in pain and still I want more. The vibrator presses flush, hard against my clit and my thighs jump, sensing my impending orgasm before my rational brain can come to terms with it. A long, drawn-out groan escapes me as I draw one knee onto the toilet seat, allowing my dildo even deeper.
“Yes, yes, yes…” The words are a whispered litany on my lips, my body dangling on the edge of a gaping precipice.
“If you were mine…”
My orgasm slams into me with the force of a freight train and a choked cry escapes me. My muscles are quivering, the edges of my vision hazy with the intensity of the pleasure.My inner muscles clench so hard around my dildo that the impression of it will remain for the next few hours – that I’ll remember what it feels like as I’m falling asleep. My mouth goes slack and the washcloth flutters to the tile floor as I struggle to breathe.
Good. So fucking good.
It takes me a few moments to come back to myself, but I do. My fingertip finds the moist trail of a cooling bead of saliva dripping down my chin and I flush slightly, embarrassed at my own wantonness. Tie vibrator continues to buzz enthusiastically beyond my grip, its vibrations edging it towards the rim of the toilet seat, and the dildo is reaching the end of its inexorable slide out of my still heated cunt.
I jump at the knock on the door, catching the phallus before it can bounce off the tile and give me away. “Yeah?” My voice is husky, surprisingly strained considering how little I taxed it.
“You ok? You’re not sick or anything are you?”
I suppress a groan. I woke him. Not very considerate of me at all. “I’m fine.” I manage, as my breathing calms. “Just a little queasy. Go back to bed. I’ll be there soon.”
There’s a hesitant pause. “Ok…Lemme know if you need anything.”
Then comes the sound of shuffling feet – the mattress depressing and a long, sleepy sigh. Soon, the low current of exhausted snoring.
I should be getting to bed. After all, I have an early day tomorrow – and a new piece of writing to work on.
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