Finally, Some Time Alone
I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been all alone in the house. To say it was a rare occurrence these days was an understatement. I’d even switched off the incessant background chatter of the television. The silence felt like an old friend. My long absence quickly forgiven, it welcomed me back with an embrace filled with tantalising potential.
After simply enjoying the revitalising silence for a few minutes, I wondered what I should do to make the best use of this alone time. The answer was pretty obvious.
The decadence of being able to pleasure myself elsewhere than our bedroom’s safe haven, or behind a locked bathroom door, was supremely arousing by itself – and I hadn’t even started yet. I felt my clit tingle beneath my skinny jeans, under the lace of my G-string. Suddenly I was hyper aware of my breasts, the hardening of my nipples, and the fact that my pussy lips felt like they wanted to part, begging to be filled and pleasured.
I had at least an hour yet, no need to rush. The front and back doors were locked, so I didn’t have to worry about being walked in on. The lounge curtains, however, were wide open, with sunlight streaming in from the street outside. Although it wasn’t a massively busy road, there were occasional passerby. I imagined being spotted by one of them walking past, me sat on the sofa, legs spread and hands thrust down my jeans pleasuring my aching cunt. OK, I was definitely getting wet now, and I was definitely going to have to do something about it.
The rareness of this silent solitude made me feel like I didn’t want to share it with anything. No vibrators, no lube. This afternoon was all just for me, alone with my imagination, my fingers, my arousal. Besides, sticky wet fingers were easier to hide, if necessary, than a vibrator.
I unbuttoned my jeans, and slid my fingers down between the denim and my lace underwear. Letting my fingertips find, and gently, teasingly stroke over my labia, then circle over the now-hard nub of my clit, I enjoyed the sensation of my breasts being pushed closer together, my nipples rubbing against the scratchy lace fabric of my bra, as my hand explored the fabric-restricted area between my legs.
The subtle bondage effect of my knuckles being restrained by the extra tight denim wasn’t lost on me, in fact I was quite enjoying it, as frustrating as it was. It’s a strange flavour, sexually arousing frustration which is self-inflicted. Deliberately heightening every inch of eroticism, forcing your mind to the peak of self-awareness, staving off the pinnacle of self-pleasure and taking the scenic route to a carefully crafted, body and mind-crashing climax.
With my other hand I pulled my breasts free from the confines of the lace bra, so they were liberated from the fabric but still held in the scaffolds of the wire cups beneath my t-shirt. I could see the soft points of my nipples through the cotton material, and mercilessly teased myself even further with a quick tweak to each one. Tingles like lightning fired between them and my screaming clit, which I still softly circled in-between fingering the wet fabric covering my pussy.
If anyone had walked by the uncovered window yet, I hadn’t noticed. The wall clock ticked in the silence, its beat of scandalised tuts the soundtrack to my wanton self-pleasure.
I wanted more.
Carefully, so as to savour every glorious sensation, I peeled the lace from my hot, excited pussy with my increasingly sticky fingertips. My mini-massage so far had caused the lace to press even more tightly than usual into my smooth vulva, and there was an exhilarating ripple of sensation every time another millimetre of sodden fabric detached from my puffy, parted lips.
Pulling it to the side, my desire for satisfaction overriding my patience, I scooped the wetness pooled at my opening and used it to lubricate my internal exploration – now unhindered by lace. I felt so hot, so slippery, so tight and intimate. The heel of my palm rubbed joyously against my urgently needy clit, causing a surge of orgasmic sensation back through my body terminating at the twin points of my torturously teased nipples.
I wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer. I forced myself to pay no attention to if anyone was walking past, hoped for the best, and let my private fantasies flow through my imagination raw and unfiltered. The most shocking thoughts from the darkest parts of my mind, contributed to by stories, movies, friends and my own perversions. Filthy, disgusting thoughts, outrageous images, humiliations and power and control and abuse and degradation and all the things that must never be.
Abandoning my saturated, finger-fucked pussy, I used my liquid arousal to attend to my not-so-patient clit. This is where it was going to emanate from, this is where my orgasm would be brought to life, and it wasn’t going to take too much longer. My index and middle finger easily slipped over my erect, exposed and straining clit, my slippery hot pussy juice forming the perfect lube. Faster and faster I moved my fingertips lightly over my slicked clit, my other hand tweaking my nipples here and there to add an extra layer of stimulation. Over the top of my clit, then to the side. Dipping my fingers down again into my hot, tight entrance, gathering more of the copious lubricant and returning to flick my fingertips over my nerve-ending central once more.
I couldn’t hold back any more. Forgetting everything else but the last few fantasies dirtying up my mind, and the sensation of my fingertips slipping with incredible speed over my slick clitoris, I gave myself over to my orgasm. I still didn’t cry out too loud – I guess I’m too well-trained by house-sharing now. But I did cause a wet patch on the sofa which later proved difficult to explain, especially when coupled with such a smug, self-satisfied smile.
Happy Masturbation Month!