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Just play with me ,,, cause I'm to busy to be in a relationship
Just play with me ,,, cause I'm to busy to be in a relationship
Lynn padded out into the living-room, naked and still wet from the shower. Her hair lay heavy and gleaming dark red-brown on her shoulders, water beaded on her shoulders and belly. Naked. Naked was good, in Lynn's book. Wet wasn't bad, either. You could do a lot with both conditions, that was what Lynn thought. She took a childish pleasure in the line of footprints that followed her out from the bathroom, the shape of her feet soaked into the carpet. She'd always loved places (the beach, a yard white with virgin snow) where she could leave a line of footprints: it was an old fantasy of hers that she was leaving a trail for someone - someone cute, of course - to follow and find her with.
Eventually they'd come to the end of their search and there she'd be, smiling and waiting for them, legs spread sluttishly. Hi there, baby. That's what she'd say. Now you get your reward. C'mere. Sighing a little, she picked up a black tank-top from the pile of laundry on the floor, the one she told herself she'd wash three nights ago. The tank-top wasn't too smelly, but it was tight. Sexy, she'd always thought. She slid it over her head and stroked the thin layer of black covering her belly, looking around her. The apartment was a mess. Big piles of old clothes, a lamp with the shade left slightly askew, a couch full of crumbs and a desk full of papers she never got around to organizing. Looking at the chaos (Mom would hate this), she felt absurdly good. Good enough to wrestle her hand between her legs and start playing with herself as she stood there. Her cunt. She loved it. Her wide, red-furred pussy, with lips that had always been big and loose, even before she'd had her cherry popped at the slightly advanced age of nineteen. She loved the way she could pull the lips out - it looked so obscene. Like an orchid. Like a mouth making faces. And so sensitive. So god-damned sensitive. If her panties were too tight, all she had to do was sit in a particular way, and she could get off. That had been very useful in college, during boring lectures. Of course, now she was a big girl. She could sit any way she liked. She could brace her heels so that her orchid-pussy flapped open and her red fur crackled like flames while her fingers did their flickering dance in and out of them.
Tickling. Playing. Itching herself. That's what she used to call it: itching herself. Coming was another thing, a wonderful, rarely-articulated thing with no name, but this delicious teasing, that was itching herself. Orgasm had never been a problem for her; she'd come a thousand times during those fucking lectures back in school, and then again in her room, and under the table at the cafeteria and Thanksgiving dinner at her family's house and then again in the pews when Mom dragged her to church and the priest's droning voice went on and on about what Christ really meant in this or that particular passage of the New Testament. Coming was so easy, in fact, that she had by degrees become almost disenchanted with it. Not with coming itself, but with the ease with which she could do it. Itching herself was better. Sweeter. It was a pleasure she could make last as long as she wanted, torturing herself with the promise of gasps and pursed lips and knees squeezed tightly together until the magic of coming was almost a physical thing she could touch, the same way she touched her clit. So she itched herself plenty now. Plenty and often. She decided to do it now, but first she decided to give herself a little extra denial to sweeten the deal. She lifted her hands over her head and squeezed them together until her orchid-pussy - excited a little now from the small attentions it had already received - began heating up and doing things to her. Nice things. She liked that. She jerked her hips back and forth, something in the motion exciting her bones and muscles and pumping a little extra wetness into the place that counted most. She imagined her hands were tied above her, that she couldn't touch herself if she tried. That was nice too. That was cool. After a while, when she thought she could smell herself, she decided it was time to get busy.
Lynn had long ago realized that her ring-finger was the weakest of the five. She'd lay her hand down flat on a desk and try to lift the ring-finger while the others lay still. It was hard. She'd decided, in a moment of boredom, that she would exercise her ring-finger until it rose as easily as any of the others. That particular ambition hadn't lasted long, but in the process she'd discovered how peculiarly supple her second finger, the one before the ring-finger, was. She'd never thought much about that finger before, but by God, it could lift and point as good as her index finger. A little better, even. That had reminded her that she had been using her second finger for itching herself time out of mind and not even thought about it. She'd plunge that boy into her lips and fuck herself while Mr. Thumb took care of Miss Clitoris. Lynn had always gotten a kick out of little discoveries like that. They were part of what made life worth living, in her opinion. She used Mr. Second Finger now, got him buried in her puss all the way up to his root. God, but he liked it in there, where it was all warm and steamy. He really was a bad boy. He found little secret spots inside her and tickled them until she was half-crazy. Of course, Mr. Thumb wasn't any kind of slouch on that score either. When orgasm came knocking at her door, she eased off. Once she even lifted her hands in the bondage-fantasy again, but the itch was too intense.
She had to get back to work on herself; she thought vaguely that if her hands really were tied up so she couldn't move them, she'd go a little crazy. She might just start crying and begging until it was a shame to see her, going please, please let me itch myself. Let me play with my hot pussy. Let me touch it just the one time. But she wasn't really tied up, of course. Still, the pleasure that coursed through her when she began itching herself again was no mean thing. It felt damned good. She shuddered all over and cried out a little. An impulse hit her to get down on the floor. For a second she almost hesitated; some half-forgotten memory of her upbringing held her back. Lying on the floor, writhing around and squealing with a finger in her pussy; that would be really bad, wouldn't it? She'd really look like some kind of little whore-girl, wouldn't she? The thought made her clit pulse hard. She almost fell on her ass getting down on the carpet, and made her hand thrust harder and harder still. Oh, God. That was good. Orgasm was threatening now, harder and hotter and sweeter than ever. She held it back. She forced herself to wait. Half-formed thoughts were chasing themselves through her mind, making a chain: itching herself on the floor was bad. She looked like a slut. A whore. But nobody could see her. If nobody could see her, it didn't matter if she looked like a whore. She could fuck herself with a dildo, with a big old cucumber, and it wouldn't make any difference. But if someone could see her...if she were in a place where people could see her... She took her hand from between her legs and lay there gasping. She could go outside. It was still early, very early, only 5:30 or so. She had always been an early riser, just like her mother. She could walk out onto the sun-deck, wearing nothing but her slutty black tank-top, and she could itch herself out there, where people could - theoretically, at least - see her. What would it be like to come in a situation like that? She thought it might be very nice indeed. The pleasure might just drive her crazy for real. She got up very slowly, breathing heavily and stroking her hips as though trying to get up the nerve to do it. The fading trail of footprints on the carpet seemed to mock her. Do it. Do it. She swallowed and walked over to the screen door that led out onto the sun-deck, opened it up and walked out.
There was still a little fog outside, clinging in ribbons to the wooden rail that enclosed her sun-deck from the rest of the world. The boards were cold under her bare feet, and Lynn shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself. But she didn't think even once about going back in. Excitement was keeping her warm, burning inside her like a fire. If she'd seen even one person bicycling or jogging along on the road beside her building, it would have thrust her immediately into the orgasm she was barely holding off. Even if the cyclist didn't realize she wasn't wearing anything under the tank-top, even if the jogger was ignorant of how hot and wet her orchid-pussy was, it would have been enough. Still, the sheer intensity of what she was doing forced Lynn to her knees on the cold boards. She felt a little afraid - just a little. But the fire burned all the hotter for that. She laid her hands in her lap and pressed them together at the wrists, replaying the bondage-fantasy a second time, in a slightly different position. You can't touch yourself now, bad girl. No, no. You can't play with that big, aching thing between your legs. Because people would see you, and that would be bad. It's bad enough that you're out here at all, with your thing showing. Aren't you ashamed? Don't you want to go back inside and do some needlepoint? Fuck that. She was digging at her lower lips before the last thought had even formed itself in her mind.
It was a challenge not to come immediately, but she managed to stave off the orgasm - how, she didn't know. She certainly wasn't thinking unsexy thoughts, the thoughts her mother had always advised her to think when a boy got fresh. Instead, she was thinking the sexiest things she could imagine: being strapped spread-eagled to an operating table while some charming older doctor lectured his class on this amazing thing, this medical aberration, this incredible pussy possessed by a perfectly ordinary redhead. She felt a cold steel tool prodding her lips, tickling them, making her scream, heard the oohs and aahs of the students as she moaned. She imagined herself in a ridiculously slutty get-up; fish-nets and high-heels and this same black tank-top, pouting and teasing some cute young boy in a soda-fountain somewhere while her clit throbbed in plain view. She felt his hands pushing hers down roughly while his cock pushed at her jungle of wet red hair, demanding access to her. She imagined herself on trial as a witch in some medieval town, tied to a rack with her cunt on display for the entire town to jeer at. So sweet, these little exhibitionistic fantasies. She knew she wouldn't be able to hold off the orgasm much longer.
It was building inside her, screaming, demanding to be born. Finally she let it out, falling back onto the boards. They chilled her shoulders and back as her cries made clouds in the cold morning air. Oh God, oh Christ, oh Fuck. She was full of light and fire and water, and all that water felt like it was pouring out of her now. Her toes and ass were clenched so tightly it felt like they might never unclench. Sweat was dribbling down her forehead, despite the cold that surrounded her. She shook violently, then, as though in revenge for having kept its brother waiting so long, a second orgasm ripped through her. She wanted to phrase words around her screams to express what she was feeling, to advertise it to her staid neighbors, but all that would come out was: "Ahhh! Aahhhhh! Oh, shit! I'm a...oh...I'm...aaahhhh!" But no windows were flung open, no honest suburban housewives stuck peevish, curlered heads out to demand What In Hell Was Going On. The only thing she heard was a dog barking somewhere, very far away. Later - not much later - she got up and discreetly crept back into the apartment. She was cold, but full of electricity and an insane euphoria. She started to brew coffee, then decided - taking the moment of pleasure as far as it could - on cocoa instead. She put two marshmallows into her mug and took it to the couch, wrapped an afghan around herself and blew on the steam rising off the chocolate. Her pussy was still throbbing, but pleasantly now, sweetly. She decided - smiling - that she would have to start getting up early more often.