Val
Wed, 13 Apr 05, 11:46 PM
I don't know whether Purists will like this or not. I can't separate wet thrills from sexual and came to sexual masturbation (with a long-handled back brush in the bath!) from a juvenility of hold-it sensation and unavoidably wet corduroy shorts longer than I can remember.
Kathy was wriggling. It was all very well charging round town for an afternoon's necessary shopping but a nasty wind had blown up. Mostly it seemed to have blown up her legs and felt its icy way inside her knickers and especially round her midriff. She wondered how those little girls showing theirs off at night they did not seem aware still showed a slight unattractive childish protruberance managed. Maybe that wasn't puppy fat on bulging display after all. She guessed from the twinges underneath and dull ache spreading to spasmodic pains shooting from hip to groin that she too liked like the 'before' picture for a diet product.
The pressure built with occasional insistant spasms. Walking felt like something wriggling inside there trying to get out. Something was of course. Kathy ought to have headed back to a toilet but then she would have been stranded. Her bag was touchingly innocent of anything except a prepaid bus ticket, money spent, phone at home never allowed to interfer with the serious business of surreptitious prodding and probing several years in France had taught her was the only way to provision herself and, she remembered, Phlip. It amused her that despite being a Philip, he insisted on the abbreviation for traditional Philippe. Their relationship was fresh enough to be still discovering things about each other. One thing Phlip had not discovered yet was the pleasure she felt in avoiding the toilet for far too long and often longer. Masturbation Inside she called it.
Busses were afraid of the dark, so at this time of year it was the 6pm or a long cold walk. Of course everybody had a car because the service was so awful and the shops shut early, so the service got worse. So everybody had a car... Counting the hire firms, there were more cars than people. The car was at home as well because Kathy prefered getting stuck in the traffic with somebody else driving so she might as well read and did not have to spend hours looking for space clogged between car parks the one-way avoided connecting directly. The bus took half an hour to manage eight stops in four miles, she about five minutes. And quite often another hour trying to park. Besides, she always ended at a red light up a steep hill with some fool so up her exhaust that she'd stall it trying not to run back into him for long enough for the red to return. She had learnt from repetition to lipread 'Women drivers' reversed in the mirror.
All the same, she was experiencing problems other than parking. Since it was the last bus, she could not get a seat to herself. At least she was not stuck with some hormonal teenager turned on by even wriggles and squirms that weren't there. Even so, sitting wasn't a great improvement on standing. It was what she did on the toilet, her body reminded her, as easing herself down reminded her body. She arranged her shopping primly on her lap, hiding the hands thrust deep between her legs. If she pressed any harder, she reckonned she risked numbing her muscles so she'd lose control anyway.
The hag of an over-painted matron next to her started a trite conversion in a voice that implied she was more familiar with personal drivers than bus ones. Typically, the elocution lessons she must have had to sound like and probably contemporary with the Queen's coronation speech seemed to have fixed her speech at the age she had them, about eight. She hated women who appeared to have sprung from a male chauvinist's dream and invariably confided in her somewhere along the line that they were "A bit of a Feminist really", as if it were risqué habit. Of course they needed it, she supposed. Kathy found images going through her head that made her wonder if she'd known this place in a previous life wearing a black uniform. A thrill shot straight up her front with a passing kick to her clitoris so that she shivered. She was quite sure that her cleavage would be glowing if she one. She was glad she didn't: men who prefered apples to melons usually saw the woman behind them.
"Yes, nasty cold wind isn't it?" the beldame reminded her, and confidentially, in the kind of stage whisper that carried far better than her Palace shrill, "Keeps you tied to the little girls' place doesn't it?" The only little girls' place Kathy knew of was a school but it was just the sort of expression she expected from Satan's sister. Maybe she should just piss the seat now and brass-brain could either share the experience or do some pissing of her own: off. Kathy thankfully had no need to reply since she had passed the stage when taking her mind off it would ease the ants in her pants and reached the one where only constant attention was keeping them in their nest.
Thinking of that, she felt her muscles tighten and empty her short tube outwards. She almost moaned outloud. Victorian women had put things up there, maybe to preserve their virginity, maybe because they were too dim to know what was what. It was unlikely but her mother had told her things about her mother that sounded like they knew as much about what was between their legs as between men's. Then again, maybe because it felt even more intense than the slow squeeze out Kathy could not help enjoying before she woke herself up to doing something about it. She was glad she was not male with such a length between to squeeze empty.
Ghastly Griselda was still grating on at her. She was as bladder-filling as the wind. Kathy realised she was unconsciously working the heel of her hand against her belly, making things worse in a way that made her feel better, too much better! The bus hit a pot-hole, a lovely warmth hit all over Kathy's inner folds and she nearly hit the roof.
At last, she could get up and that was a danger in itself. She felt the tingly little spasm and wondered if maybe she should do it all over Gasbag as well as in her pants. Outside the bus, the wind had dropped but whipped up a sprinkling of sleet from underneath. Kathy was wetting now through over-worked muscles trying to hold back. It was dark and that somehow made it feel colder and because she could not be seen, even were there anybody to see, she squirted and spurted and leaked and dripped and the first at least made her almost ready to spread her legs and grind wet cloth into wet membranes there and then. The sleet settled under her jeans and melted down her socks. 'Weather like a cold' she always called it. Every step thrilled and relieved. She walked faster and realised she was doing the silly 'Monroe Wiggle'. She regarded walking like that on the same level as talking with the 'Monroe Lisp'. It might have been sexy in 1955 but so was her ma!
An old college joke hit her: 'Unsatisfied Externals', that was how they knew the college mainframe was male; a female one would have 'Unsatisfied Internals'. It was a suitably cryptic mainframe message that nobody had ever known what it meant except for a run wasted, or ever cared enough to find out. Good old ICL! Anything to take her mind off being masturbated from inside while all those pants-ants were wriggling to force over-sensitized miniature lips apart. Kathy cursed her tight muscles for not staying tight enough while she funmbled the lock and then rang the bell. She wasn't used to having somebody at home to open the door yet.
Phlip opened the door so she flung her shopping down and shot through heading for the lav, losing it pouring down her legs the moment she had felt safe indoors. She never got there because her thrill was soo intense she had to grip and it was obvious to Phlip what she was feeling. He pulled her hands away while she wriggled and moaned. Kathy felt far too overpowered with thrills everywhere, just the tiniest touch from orgasm, to put up a fight. He pinioned her wrists behind her while she gasped and gushed into her pants so forcefully that they were wet almost as high as his would be.
Phlip recognised all her signs of sexual exitement well beyond her just thrusting her hands between her legs to try and hold back. He grabbed her and had her bundled wriggling and gushing with hands tied frustratingly out the the way before she knew wheree she was. His eyes passed over her as if he'd need to wash them after the sight in a way that had initially made her think he must be gay or a James Bond villain incognito. It made her shiver.
"So she gets a thrill out of doing in her knickers, doesn't she?" His voice had softened. Kathy nodded. She couldn't speak. "But you didn't tell me. Why not?". Wooerer! His frighteningly reasonable voice reminded her of a wonderfully appalling bad line without the accent she put on it from an ancient Dennis Wheatley novel, "I shall smoke zis excellent cigar half vay before stubbing it out in your left eye". Why left for Satan's sake? The SS villain was probably drinking a named vintage brandy as well.
Kathy was wondering if there were things she was just beginning to learn about him that would have been better learnt from the start so there wouldn't have been a start. One thing she had learnt is that he hardly ever lost his temper but if he did, it was after exactly this sort of deceptive reasonable quietness, so it came as far more of a shock. He'd told her it resulted from horror of conflict long before it bacmae PC normality, but suspected the old screaming fight might have been better because everybody knew how the other other was feeling. He suspected there was more violence in those days spread much less viciously with people backing off than when everybody stayed calm to breakdown. Comparing scool memories of boys almost always fighting and girls hardly ever, Kathy had seem his point: boys fought to win, girls to destroy.
"I was going to but it's not an easy thing and..." Kathy gasped and cllapsed with relief because she saw the front and legs of his pants darkening. "And you were afraid it might put me off", he finished softly in the ear he had started to lick and nibble, "Well you can see it doesn't. I hope you like my show as much as I enjoy yours". He was undoing her blouse and bra. "You utter, utter bastard!" Kathy managed trying not to faint with relief. He'd timed her just right. Any more and she would have been frightened enough to be terified of anything he did. Her relief was as good as a finger up her. Well, maybe only a small finger.
"It's totally unfair to torture somebody for being afraid their lover would make them ashamed of their thrills, isn't it?". Kathy nodded. Her earlobe was soft, wet, red and very swollen. It wasn't alone. "So I'm going to be unfair for not telling me. An I suppose you'll expect to get your own back won't you?" "You sod! You bet I will!".
His hands up her wet thighs had her quivering and when they reached her briefs pulled open and then pressed in. "You're on the edge", he told her. Kathy agreed. "And there you stay until you do the right thing. And I'm not telling you what that is". Kathy wailed thinking of the hours of writhing frustration ahead of her.
His tender hands and lips were all over everywhere except the sticky little place that had her contorting to find some sort of relief she just couldn't. To make it worse, every so often he stroked a finger up her thigh and just under her elastic, but never any closer. She was so desperate this was that she ached internally and that in turn was affecting her stretched bladder again.
Eventually, she couldn't hold any more. Both frustrations together had her im a dreamy state barely aware of anything else, a sort of unending near-orgasm. She felt and enjoyed the warmth leaking into her pants. It built up to more than a leak and streamed down between her legs. For the first time, Phlip sliipped a finger down her pants and pressed to block her. Kathy's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. "Let me, please" she whimpered. She didn't have any strength left for efforts like speech. "Let you what?" "Let me pee".
"In your pants again?" Phlip rubbed to make it worse. "Yes, let me do it in my pants, please let me piss myself, wet my pants, I don't care, I must". A flash of anger went through her. Playing was all very well but some things could go on too far. He slipped his finger slowly away so she felt her flow force gradually past and when she was gushing uncontrollably slipped it back again. Bugger, that hurt her back! However else it felt as well. But he almost immediately let her free and slipped hands through her legs to open her and stroke the wet membranes inside. Finally and orgasmically, she finished soaking herself. Exhaustion was beginning to get the better of her. Any more would be downright abusive.
"You know what I said about doing the right thing?" "Yes". She couldn't keep resignation out of her voice but he took no notice. "You've just done it. There's only one thing for an inconintent little bitch like you". Gently, he pulled her pants down, unhooked her hands so she could lean back and lifting her bottom to expose membranes swollen in danger of soreness started to lick very gently and slowly. It took much longer than Kathy imagined herself capable of. There was definitely nothing frustrating about it this time.
Kathy was wriggling. It was all very well charging round town for an afternoon's necessary shopping but a nasty wind had blown up. Mostly it seemed to have blown up her legs and felt its icy way inside her knickers and especially round her midriff. She wondered how those little girls showing theirs off at night they did not seem aware still showed a slight unattractive childish protruberance managed. Maybe that wasn't puppy fat on bulging display after all. She guessed from the twinges underneath and dull ache spreading to spasmodic pains shooting from hip to groin that she too liked like the 'before' picture for a diet product.
The pressure built with occasional insistant spasms. Walking felt like something wriggling inside there trying to get out. Something was of course. Kathy ought to have headed back to a toilet but then she would have been stranded. Her bag was touchingly innocent of anything except a prepaid bus ticket, money spent, phone at home never allowed to interfer with the serious business of surreptitious prodding and probing several years in France had taught her was the only way to provision herself and, she remembered, Phlip. It amused her that despite being a Philip, he insisted on the abbreviation for traditional Philippe. Their relationship was fresh enough to be still discovering things about each other. One thing Phlip had not discovered yet was the pleasure she felt in avoiding the toilet for far too long and often longer. Masturbation Inside she called it.
Busses were afraid of the dark, so at this time of year it was the 6pm or a long cold walk. Of course everybody had a car because the service was so awful and the shops shut early, so the service got worse. So everybody had a car... Counting the hire firms, there were more cars than people. The car was at home as well because Kathy prefered getting stuck in the traffic with somebody else driving so she might as well read and did not have to spend hours looking for space clogged between car parks the one-way avoided connecting directly. The bus took half an hour to manage eight stops in four miles, she about five minutes. And quite often another hour trying to park. Besides, she always ended at a red light up a steep hill with some fool so up her exhaust that she'd stall it trying not to run back into him for long enough for the red to return. She had learnt from repetition to lipread 'Women drivers' reversed in the mirror.
All the same, she was experiencing problems other than parking. Since it was the last bus, she could not get a seat to herself. At least she was not stuck with some hormonal teenager turned on by even wriggles and squirms that weren't there. Even so, sitting wasn't a great improvement on standing. It was what she did on the toilet, her body reminded her, as easing herself down reminded her body. She arranged her shopping primly on her lap, hiding the hands thrust deep between her legs. If she pressed any harder, she reckonned she risked numbing her muscles so she'd lose control anyway.
The hag of an over-painted matron next to her started a trite conversion in a voice that implied she was more familiar with personal drivers than bus ones. Typically, the elocution lessons she must have had to sound like and probably contemporary with the Queen's coronation speech seemed to have fixed her speech at the age she had them, about eight. She hated women who appeared to have sprung from a male chauvinist's dream and invariably confided in her somewhere along the line that they were "A bit of a Feminist really", as if it were risqué habit. Of course they needed it, she supposed. Kathy found images going through her head that made her wonder if she'd known this place in a previous life wearing a black uniform. A thrill shot straight up her front with a passing kick to her clitoris so that she shivered. She was quite sure that her cleavage would be glowing if she one. She was glad she didn't: men who prefered apples to melons usually saw the woman behind them.
"Yes, nasty cold wind isn't it?" the beldame reminded her, and confidentially, in the kind of stage whisper that carried far better than her Palace shrill, "Keeps you tied to the little girls' place doesn't it?" The only little girls' place Kathy knew of was a school but it was just the sort of expression she expected from Satan's sister. Maybe she should just piss the seat now and brass-brain could either share the experience or do some pissing of her own: off. Kathy thankfully had no need to reply since she had passed the stage when taking her mind off it would ease the ants in her pants and reached the one where only constant attention was keeping them in their nest.
Thinking of that, she felt her muscles tighten and empty her short tube outwards. She almost moaned outloud. Victorian women had put things up there, maybe to preserve their virginity, maybe because they were too dim to know what was what. It was unlikely but her mother had told her things about her mother that sounded like they knew as much about what was between their legs as between men's. Then again, maybe because it felt even more intense than the slow squeeze out Kathy could not help enjoying before she woke herself up to doing something about it. She was glad she was not male with such a length between to squeeze empty.
Ghastly Griselda was still grating on at her. She was as bladder-filling as the wind. Kathy realised she was unconsciously working the heel of her hand against her belly, making things worse in a way that made her feel better, too much better! The bus hit a pot-hole, a lovely warmth hit all over Kathy's inner folds and she nearly hit the roof.
At last, she could get up and that was a danger in itself. She felt the tingly little spasm and wondered if maybe she should do it all over Gasbag as well as in her pants. Outside the bus, the wind had dropped but whipped up a sprinkling of sleet from underneath. Kathy was wetting now through over-worked muscles trying to hold back. It was dark and that somehow made it feel colder and because she could not be seen, even were there anybody to see, she squirted and spurted and leaked and dripped and the first at least made her almost ready to spread her legs and grind wet cloth into wet membranes there and then. The sleet settled under her jeans and melted down her socks. 'Weather like a cold' she always called it. Every step thrilled and relieved. She walked faster and realised she was doing the silly 'Monroe Wiggle'. She regarded walking like that on the same level as talking with the 'Monroe Lisp'. It might have been sexy in 1955 but so was her ma!
An old college joke hit her: 'Unsatisfied Externals', that was how they knew the college mainframe was male; a female one would have 'Unsatisfied Internals'. It was a suitably cryptic mainframe message that nobody had ever known what it meant except for a run wasted, or ever cared enough to find out. Good old ICL! Anything to take her mind off being masturbated from inside while all those pants-ants were wriggling to force over-sensitized miniature lips apart. Kathy cursed her tight muscles for not staying tight enough while she funmbled the lock and then rang the bell. She wasn't used to having somebody at home to open the door yet.
Phlip opened the door so she flung her shopping down and shot through heading for the lav, losing it pouring down her legs the moment she had felt safe indoors. She never got there because her thrill was soo intense she had to grip and it was obvious to Phlip what she was feeling. He pulled her hands away while she wriggled and moaned. Kathy felt far too overpowered with thrills everywhere, just the tiniest touch from orgasm, to put up a fight. He pinioned her wrists behind her while she gasped and gushed into her pants so forcefully that they were wet almost as high as his would be.
Phlip recognised all her signs of sexual exitement well beyond her just thrusting her hands between her legs to try and hold back. He grabbed her and had her bundled wriggling and gushing with hands tied frustratingly out the the way before she knew wheree she was. His eyes passed over her as if he'd need to wash them after the sight in a way that had initially made her think he must be gay or a James Bond villain incognito. It made her shiver.
"So she gets a thrill out of doing in her knickers, doesn't she?" His voice had softened. Kathy nodded. She couldn't speak. "But you didn't tell me. Why not?". Wooerer! His frighteningly reasonable voice reminded her of a wonderfully appalling bad line without the accent she put on it from an ancient Dennis Wheatley novel, "I shall smoke zis excellent cigar half vay before stubbing it out in your left eye". Why left for Satan's sake? The SS villain was probably drinking a named vintage brandy as well.
Kathy was wondering if there were things she was just beginning to learn about him that would have been better learnt from the start so there wouldn't have been a start. One thing she had learnt is that he hardly ever lost his temper but if he did, it was after exactly this sort of deceptive reasonable quietness, so it came as far more of a shock. He'd told her it resulted from horror of conflict long before it bacmae PC normality, but suspected the old screaming fight might have been better because everybody knew how the other other was feeling. He suspected there was more violence in those days spread much less viciously with people backing off than when everybody stayed calm to breakdown. Comparing scool memories of boys almost always fighting and girls hardly ever, Kathy had seem his point: boys fought to win, girls to destroy.
"I was going to but it's not an easy thing and..." Kathy gasped and cllapsed with relief because she saw the front and legs of his pants darkening. "And you were afraid it might put me off", he finished softly in the ear he had started to lick and nibble, "Well you can see it doesn't. I hope you like my show as much as I enjoy yours". He was undoing her blouse and bra. "You utter, utter bastard!" Kathy managed trying not to faint with relief. He'd timed her just right. Any more and she would have been frightened enough to be terified of anything he did. Her relief was as good as a finger up her. Well, maybe only a small finger.
"It's totally unfair to torture somebody for being afraid their lover would make them ashamed of their thrills, isn't it?". Kathy nodded. Her earlobe was soft, wet, red and very swollen. It wasn't alone. "So I'm going to be unfair for not telling me. An I suppose you'll expect to get your own back won't you?" "You sod! You bet I will!".
His hands up her wet thighs had her quivering and when they reached her briefs pulled open and then pressed in. "You're on the edge", he told her. Kathy agreed. "And there you stay until you do the right thing. And I'm not telling you what that is". Kathy wailed thinking of the hours of writhing frustration ahead of her.
His tender hands and lips were all over everywhere except the sticky little place that had her contorting to find some sort of relief she just couldn't. To make it worse, every so often he stroked a finger up her thigh and just under her elastic, but never any closer. She was so desperate this was that she ached internally and that in turn was affecting her stretched bladder again.
Eventually, she couldn't hold any more. Both frustrations together had her im a dreamy state barely aware of anything else, a sort of unending near-orgasm. She felt and enjoyed the warmth leaking into her pants. It built up to more than a leak and streamed down between her legs. For the first time, Phlip sliipped a finger down her pants and pressed to block her. Kathy's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. "Let me, please" she whimpered. She didn't have any strength left for efforts like speech. "Let you what?" "Let me pee".
"In your pants again?" Phlip rubbed to make it worse. "Yes, let me do it in my pants, please let me piss myself, wet my pants, I don't care, I must". A flash of anger went through her. Playing was all very well but some things could go on too far. He slipped his finger slowly away so she felt her flow force gradually past and when she was gushing uncontrollably slipped it back again. Bugger, that hurt her back! However else it felt as well. But he almost immediately let her free and slipped hands through her legs to open her and stroke the wet membranes inside. Finally and orgasmically, she finished soaking herself. Exhaustion was beginning to get the better of her. Any more would be downright abusive.
"You know what I said about doing the right thing?" "Yes". She couldn't keep resignation out of her voice but he took no notice. "You've just done it. There's only one thing for an inconintent little bitch like you". Gently, he pulled her pants down, unhooked her hands so she could lean back and lifting her bottom to expose membranes swollen in danger of soreness started to lick very gently and slowly. It took much longer than Kathy imagined herself capable of. There was definitely nothing frustrating about it this time.