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She finally unlocks the door and lets me into the bathroom.
Anne always liked to take her showers long and warm, and even though she’s been in here a good forty minutes, she’s still in a bathrobe. With a towel wrapped around her hair and a foot on the bathtub, she’s painting her toenails and humming that “Wrecking Ball” song that’s so popular right now.
I look at her in the mirror as I’m wiping off my makeup. She’s a bit younger than me, but I’m proud to say you probably couldn’t tell.
I notice her wide smile, and I ask: “Going out tonight?”
She nods and keeps on humming as she works on the other foot. I grab my toothbrush, pour some paste on it, and can’t resist adding:
“…With a special someone?” mocking her with a high pitch.
Her smile widens. “You could say so,” she says, then wiggles her toes, admiring her work.
I’m so curious to know more, it’s like a black hole in the back side of my brain, eating away at my thoughts until I can sate it, but she doesn’t tell me anything more. I spit out the toothpaste and ask:
“So, is it John? Henry?”
“Nope,” she says, “and nope.” Then she pushes me aside to use the hairdryer.
I wipe off a drop of toothpaste that fell onto my pink nightie, and leave her all the room she needs. I sit on the bathtub, right behind her, and over the hairdryer’s noise I ask:
“Paul? That cute guy from Starbucks?”
“Come on, tell me who it is!”
I’m thinking about it as hard as I can. I know she’ll tell me if I guess right, she just likes to play games. I tie my blond hair in a ponytail and try again:
“It’s the bus driver! Leo!”
“What? Ew. No, it’s not him!”
Her short red hair is all dry and I still haven’t got a clue. I follow her all the way to her room. She drops the bathrobe and starts rummaging through her closet.
“It’s not Justin, is it? Tell me it’s not Justin.”
“Fuck, no. I’m not that desperate.” She finds a couple of short dresses, one blue, low cut, with a golden belt around the waist, and the other white, with a nice open back. She holds them both out in front and asks me, “Which one?”
I point at the white dress, and she wears the blue one. She’s too busy straightening it out to notice my eyes rolling. When she’s satisfied with her cleavage, she grabs a pair of black sandals and puts them on, then sits at her makeup table and starts carefully highlighting her already pleasant features.
She’s about halfway through when I hear Miley Cyrus singing. It’s Anne’s phone going off. It’s Anne’s boyfriend calling her!
I race to the phone. Since I’m not holding a pencil to my eyeball and I’m not wearing heels, I beat her easily to it. She lunges forward to grab it off my hand but I dash away and take the call.
“Hel-lo there!” I sing into the phone.
“Hey sweetie, I’m here. You ready to go yet?”
I know that voice. I look at Anne and she’s biting her lips, one hand on her chin. I turn away from her and I say, to the phone: “…Mike?”
“Oh, fuck,” he says, “Christie?”
I close the call and throw away the phone. It bounces off the couch and crashes onto the floor, its cover splits and the battery flies off.
Anne screams something at me but I’m louder:
“You’re dating my EX?!”
“So what? You two are over, aren’t you?!” she says, then runs into her room and locks herself in.
“That’s not the point!” I say, trying in vain to open the door, “you know he’s an asshole!”
“He’s not! And it’s none of your business!”
We argue through the door — well, mostly, I scream at her silence — for a while, then the key turns and the door opens. Her makeup is done and she’s holding her purse. She storms off past me. I try to get in the way but she steps on my foot with the heel and I fall on the couch, whimpering.
“Goodnight, Christie,” she says, and slams the door behind her.
Suffice to say I didn’t expect this. Anne and I have been flatmates for a couple of years, friends for a decade, and I don’t know if I’m more hurt by her betrayal or my inability to see it coming.
I lay on the bed and try to get some sleep, but thoughts of my best friend enjoying a night out with my ex flood my mind and keep me awake. She didn’t wear panties, did she? He’s going to hurt her, just like he hurt me… Is he trying to get back at me? Is he trying to get back -with- me?
My mind is broken. I don’t know if I’m supposed to save Anne from Mike, or just hate Mike, or let them go because they deserve each other. What would I do if he came over to stay with her? Do I have to get a new home?
All the thoughts just keep on piling up and no matter how much I toss and turn, I realize there’s no way I’m going to get any sleep. I step out of bed, which by now is just a mess of tangled sheets, walk to the living room and sit on the couch.
It feels weird to sit on cold leather in just a nightie, so I grab a blanket and wrap myself with it, then I turn on the TV. One of those cute little romantic canlı bahis comedies is on. I think it could keep my mind off Anne and Mike long enough to fall asleep, but I couldn’t be any more mistaken.
I don’t know if the actors just look like them or what, but my eyes just keep switching their faces and I see Anne and Mike dating. Anne and Mike arguing. Anne and Mike having sex. And that’s where I draw the line. I haven’t had any since I broke up with Mike, two months ago, and all this thinking about them hooking up has, to my shame, kind of turned me on.
My hand wanders under my nightie and I’m so wet my panties are soaked. I think about heading back to my room for some alone time but then I realize Anne won’t be home for quite a while and a sick idea blooms in my head. Seconds later, my nightie and panties are on the floor and I’m sitting on the couch, naked.
I’ve never done it in the living room. I feel so free, so happy, it’s like I’m getting back at Anne for backstabbing me. I rub my legs together as I massage my breast and zap around the channels looking for something hot. I settle on some sort of sports reality show, there’s all kinds of hot guys sweating around the gym half naked. I set it on mute and part my legs slightly.
My hand starts working by itself, rubs my clitoris and it feels so good. I’m doing something forbidden. I’m doing something nasty. And I’m loving it. I want it to be more scandalous. I want to show the world I can break the rules, too. I get on my knees on the couch cushion and bend over its backrest.
The remote is big, black and rubbery. The battery slot stands out in a nicely rounded bulge. All throughout its length, there’s bumps and stuff for ergonomics. Just looking at it, my heart skips a beat. Should I? Could I? No, and no.
Which means I must.
I grab the remote and I spread my pussy with two fingers. I savor the moment, rubbing my labia with it, waving my hips against it and my breasts against the couch, until I can’t take it any more and I push it in.
It doesn’t go in smoothly, no matter how wet I am, but I want this. I want this so much, I just keep pushing. It gets to my g-spot, and I moan. It feels so good to just move it back and forth right there, moaning as loud as I want to, showing the world how much I don’t care.
But I want more. I want to be taken completely. And I push it further in, and it leaves me breathless, and I’m almost done, I’m about to come, the remote stretching me wide, when I hear voices outside the door.
I scamper over the couch. The remote falls out of me. The voices are very close. A man and a woman. I can’t tell what they’re saying. I force myself to run for cover and I notice too late that I just closed myself in Anne’s room.
My breath is heavy and my thighs are wet. I caught a glimpse of myself in Anne’s mirror and my face and neck are flushed red all the way to my chest. My nipples are so hard, and I’m getting goosebumps all over. I bite my nails and I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
Nobody’s coming. Maybe I could have gotten to my room by now. I peek out slightly and all is quiet. The voices are gone. I tip-toe all the way to my room, then, feeling brave, I reach the front door and look to the peephole. A couple is kissing on the porch. I’m startled, but it’s not them. It’s just my neighbors, calling an early night to get some action, it would seem.
I sigh in relief. My built-up orgasm is all gone, now, but my excitement hasn’t faded any. Also, that quick venture into Anne’s room just gave me another sick idea.
I’m not into that kind of stuff, but I know Anne has an extensive collection of toys. I’ve never seen it but, a few months ago, I wandered into the bathroom only to see her on her knees, legs spread wide, with a huge vibrating dildo half sticking out of her.
We never spoke of that incident again, unless you count that one time she got drunk and told me all about her fancy collection.
And where she hides it.
Still naked, I walk back to her room. I pull out the underwear drawer and the fake bottom underneath her thongs and bras and whatevers.
I confess, the sight is more on the funny side than the exciting one. There’s dildos of all shapes and sizes and materials. A few butt plugs. Some things I don’t even know what they are. I try and picture what they’re going to feel like inside me. My heart races and my belly warms up.
Anne masturbated with these. I think about her, on the bed, when I’m not home, riding one of these dildos until she screams. I think about me, stealing one of her toys and masturbating on her bed until I come.
I pick a small one. The others are sort of intimidating. It’s an egg, pink and rubbery, although much more slick than the tv remote, even with all the waves and bumps carved into it. There’s a tiny, flexible silver antenna sticking out of it, and a small, pink, plastic remote right next to it.
I hold it in my hand and twist the speed setting. It feels funny, and soon enough I get it bahis siteleri on my nipple, at the lowest setting. I kneel on Anne’s bed and slowly increase the intensity up to about half way through.
That’s when I move it down to my clitoris. I push it against me and it feels so good I moan and grind my hips and I get my face down on the pillow. I’m already about to come and I can’t believe there’s still so much more to it. I can’t allow myself to orgasm just yet; I want to enjoy this first go as long as possible… Then I can always get more.
It’s hard to stop masturbating, but I do. I turn off the egg and I lie belly up on Anne’s bed. I bring my knees to my chest and, legs apart, I slowly push the egg into my pussy. It’s not as big as the remote but I’m quivering with anticipation about the vibrations. I’m so wet, it slides in with just the right amount of resistance.
It’s resting against my g-spot, and I finally turn it on. I increase the intensity. I’m loving it, I moan and I rub myself, my nipples and clitoris, as the vibrations melt my mind and I can’t stop vocalizing. I’m almost there. I’m about to come. It’s on the highest setting now and it’s driving me insane.
It moves a little further in, so I instinctively reach into myself to pull it back towards my g-spot.
I grab, I pull, it gives; I come screaming and writhing on Anne’s bed and I’m a mess of sweat and juices and I can’t stop smiling as wave after wave of delight rips through me, made more powerful by the vibrations.
My pussy contracts and I feel the egg and its vibrations moving further up my belly. It’s making me twitch in waves of pleasure, too much pleasure, so I turn the knob all the way to off.
And it keeps on vibrating at the highest setting.
And I realize that, pulling at the antenna, it came off.
I try and reach inside of me with my fingers, but the slightest touch is unbearable. The vibrations are even worse. My hips move of their own accord, trying to escape this torment. When I finally manage to endure my own touch long enough to enter myself, I come again.
I push and buckle and it’s so strong I can’t even scream. The pleasure mixed with fear grips my whole body and shakes me. I need to get back in control. I need to pull this damn thing out. I push my fingers further in, and I’m so sensitive it almost hurts, and I feel the egg on my fingertips, and I try to grab it.
And it slides further in.
I crunch up, trying to undo this horrible mistake. I roll to one side and hug my knees, but the added pressure makes the vibrations even worse so I quickly stretch. I see the vibrator’s remote and I desperately hit the off button, to no avail.
The antenna. The antenna is the problem. For a moment, I consider trying to stick it back onto the egg, but I realize it’s hopeless. Perhaps the remote might still work, up close? I touch my crotch with it, and hit the off button again. Nothing. It’s the closest I can get it… or is it?
I point the remote at my vagina and hesitate as it touches me. I’m breathing in moans and cries and tears are streaming down my cheeks. I feel a new orgasm building up, and I don’t know if I can take it. I hold my breath and push it in.
I’m so tight, and I’m so sensitive, I can feel every crease in the plastic. Every button and the battery slot. I grip it like it’s my last hope, and it is. I think it’s far enough — it’s certainly as far as I can get it –, but to push the off button, I must stick a finger in on top of it.
I don’t know if it’s just chance or if I’ve finally lost control over my body, but it just so happens that, to hit the off switch, my knuckle hits my g-spot, and I come again. It’s the strongest one yet, but I’m too terrified to enjoy it. I thrash and scream and curse as it ripples through me for what feels like an eternity, and when it finally wears off, my womb is still vibrating.
The remote won’t work. I throw it away and I crawl off the bed. I stagger all the way to my room and sit at my desk, the cold metal chair sending shivers through my sweaty skin. My laptop comes to life and I beg google to tell me what I can do to get this hellish thing out of me.
Everybody’s saying to go to the ER, but I don’t have a car, and the very thought of sitting on a taxi or public transportation, trapped in a haze of constant orgasm turns my stomach upside down. Not to mention this thing is loud. Its buzzing is constant, and very audible. I look down at myself and I see I’ve made a small puddle of my juices on the chair. I move to the edge of the seat and I can already feel a new orgasm building up.
I surf the web to an anonymous message board. I write a quick, concise post asking for help, and I start hitting the refresh button right away, but of course nobody replies yet.
Help. I need help. I need my closest female friend to help me out of this. I need Anne. I grab my phone and call hers, but it seems she switched it off. That’s when I remember smashing her phone, earlier, and I drop my forehead on the desk and bahis şirketleri can’t stop sobbing.
Here it comes again. I clench. I warm up. Begging a silent prayer to myself, maddened by this storm of sensation, I cross my legs and squeeze my thighs against each other. Hands over my belly, I bend forward. I can hold this. I must hold this.
I control my breathing and I try to calm down. Sparks wash over me, tingling all over my skin and breasts. It passes. I think I did it. I’m winded, and I’m spent, but I did it. I held it in. I laugh to myself, proud of my small measure of victory, even though it’s left me kind of jittery.
I refresh the message board and I’ve got a few replies.
One says, “Go to the ER.”
“Post pics!” says another.
Of the last two, one calls me a slut and the last asks me if I want to fuck.
I shut the laptop and throw myself on the bed. What can I do? I can’t go to the ER! I don’t even know if the constant orgasms will let me get dressed. Maybe, I think, maybe the battery will run out soon. Eventually. Won’t it?
The vibe continues, unrelenting. I check online with my phone to see how long this thing’s battery will last, and it could be anywhere from three to five hours, and I’m barely thirty minutes into it. I need Anne. I need her now. But if I can’t call her phone, how can I reach her?
Mike. She’s with Mike. I still have his number. Hovering over his contact information, I’m trying to work out the courage to call. Trying to work out what to say. I settle for a text message: I just can’t afford to speak.
“Mike, it’s Christie,” I write, in case he deleted my number, “I’m having an emergency and I need Anne at home. There’s nobody else I can call. Please, take her back home. I’m sorry.”
I hit send without proofreading. An eternity passes and the egg is pushing me to the edge again. It feels like the orgasm I controlled before is back with a grudge, and I try my hardest to hold it in. I relax my legs and try to breathe slowly, I focus on my breathing instead of the constant buzzing in my crotch, and I think I’m going well when suddenly, my phone rings.
I can’t answer, can I? But can I afford not to? I swallow and try to collect myself before taking the call. I can’t think straight long enough to plan what to say.
“What the fuck do you want?” It’s not Mike. It’s Anne. “Are you really so desperate to keep us apart,” she says, fast and bitter, “that you fake emergencies?”
“N-no,” I say in a whimper, “I really,” I say, and I pause. I’m tensing up. It’s happening again. “Really,” I continue, “need your help.”
She scoffs. “With what?!” she asks, and I hear her hand slapping something.
“I can’t-” I say, then I turn away from the phone hoping she won’t hear my moans. It takes a while before I can get back to her. “I can’t tell you!” I cry.
“Fine,” she says, “if you’re not trying to keep us apart, then you’ll be OK with Mike tagging along.”
“Oh god,” I say, mostly to myself, “no, please. Please, just come alone, I-” I’d like to say more but I’m so close to coming, it takes a full body effort to hold it in.
Anne’s calling me names, digging up old fights between us, and venting out all her frustration on me. But I can’t hear a word she says; my legs are shaking, my back is arching, and I’m cupping my mouth not to scream. I can’t afford to argue with her. She’ll bring Mike over. I’ll think about it later.
“OK,” I whisper in a moment of relative calm. “OK, OK, bring Mike!” I breathe in, “just, please, hurry!”
She hangs up. I don’t know if she’s coming.
But I am.
It’s stronger than even the last one. A full body orgasm. I convulse all over the bed and I grip the sheets as it heats up my crotch, then my belly, then my chest. I could swear I feel it in my hands and feet, and my vision goes blurry and I realize I’ve been screaming at the top of my lungs.
Some time later, I wake up to the door slamming. I must have passed out. I hear faint voices, male and female, but my head is too clouded to tell them apart. I try to stand and I’m suddenly aware, again, of the vibrations in my womb. My insides feel tender and within seconds, I’m again at my limit.
I peek out of my room and I see Anne and Mike standing next to the couch. She’s holding up my nightie and points at my panties on the floor.
Mike laughs. “So, what sort of emergency did she say it was?” he says.
“She didn’t,” Anne says, and shrugs. Then she throws my nightie on the ground and gestures towards the couch. “Sit down,” she says, “watch some TV. I’ll handle her.”
Mike nods and sits on the draped blanket. He grabs the remote, then looks at it, and wipes his hand on the couch. It’s still wet from my…
Anne walks to the bathroom door and knocks. “Christie?” she says, “you in there?”
“I’m in here!” I whisper, and Mike turns to face me. I instinctively shut the door and I hear footsteps closing in.
“She’s in here,” Mike says, “can I come in?” and I see the door handle turning.
I push myself against the door and yell: “No!” but he’s stronger than me and the door opens a little bit. I manage to turn my panting into words barely enough to tell him: “Please, just Anne!”
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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