Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I stood there toying with my breasts until the thick, liquid heat in my pussy became impossible to ignore. My gaze followed my hand as I bunched up my skirt and slipped my fingers into my panties. I bit back the moan that bubbled to my lips; my own hand had never felt so good. I circled my hips against the flicking movement of my middle finger.
It felt nice, for the moment, but it would feel so much better if I got really dirty with it. I quickly brought that hand to my mouth and sucked three of my fingers, then reached back down and plunged them inside. I heard the slick pop of my flesh parting wetly and the obscene sound sped me on. I fucked myself hard, reveling in the intimate texture of my body as I rippled around my wriggling fingers. I played my thumb against my clit as well as I could, considering my position. I was clumsy, reckless, totally abandoned to the wild pleasure of doing something I shouldn’t, something filthy, something a good girl never would.
Emboldened, I stepped away from the door and put one foot on the toilet seat, opening wider for myself. It was an awkward angle, but it gave me better access; I was able to jam my fingers deeper, deeper, to go so vulgarly far as to add a fourth, until I’d buried my hand nearly to the knuckles. I curled them and pushed up hard, too hard, while I frantically rubbed my clit with my other hand. Within seconds, I was coming, oh god, I was coming, pounding my fingers against my g-spot until I broke apart with a soundless cry, trembling and barely able to keep my footing. A burst of wetness splashed my fingers and doused my panties as black spots flashed in my vision and the electric fire of my orgasm clenched every muscle below my waist.
I kept my fingers busy until the last shocks had passed, then, my inner thigh muscles quaking, pulled my hand free and set my foot back down.
The woman in the mirror stared back at me in a crashing moment of post-orgasm clarity. Doing something bad was only fun when you were in the middle of it. In the aftermath, I was a woman who’d violently fucked herself in an employee restroom. My panties were sodden; there was no way I could wear them out and I had no idea what I should do with them or where to put them. Sweat shone on all my visible skin. I let my panties hit the floor and stepped out of them, then teetered on unsteady legs to the sink. I couldn’t meet my own eyes in my reflection. I was too ashamed.
But why? You didn’t do anything wrong, I reasoned with myself. Nobody saw. You didn’t hurt anybody. You’re playing a game with a consenting partner. No one will ever know, except him.
He would know. Oh, he would know. Not only because he’d given me this task, but because he’d seen my glassy eyes and reddened skin in the moments after I’d come. He would know from the languorous sway to my walk that I wouldn’t be able to hide, but that no one would notice because they hadn’t seen it before. They hadn’t watched me come. Hadn’t watched me get fucked by another man.
What I’d done? Had nothing to do with me.
It was all for him. Because he’d asked for it.
Before I turned on the tap, I locked eyes with myself in the mirror and brought my sticky hand to my lips. With a groan of satisfaction, I sucked each finger clean, swirled my tongue between them, and never looked away.
After I washed my hands and ran a wet paper towel over my neck and chest, I took my time, carefully looking over my appearance and making sure everything was in place. Kind of sweaty hair patted back into the deconstructed bun I’d worked so hard on so it would appear effortless, check. Bra and dress readjusted, check. Dried off my thighs, check.
Panties?
What the hell would I do with those?
I glanced around the depressingly function-only bathroom. There was no place at all to hide the evidence. Someone would see them in the trash, and I couldn’t flush them; what if they clogged up the plumbing? I couldn’t imagine the kind of “critical conversation” that would be needed in the workplace after a maintenance man found the cause of the obstruction.
Pockets! My dress had pockets! It had been one of the reasons I’d bought the damn thing. I stuffed my panties in one, cleared my throat, held my head high, and walked out of the bathroom and back to the rehearsal dinner.
When I entered, Matt was talking to another table, flashing them his charming host smile. He glanced up, and our eyes locked.