I used to ignore them. Those days when concentration is a nebulous entity to the captured for a fleeting moment, before she evaporates into etheral mist. Always, there was that soft, unspoken pull to the centre of my body. Oh, to be sure, it was nothing violent or urgent, just a tapping on the limits of my consciousness that was as soft as the beat of a butterflies wings that brought with it a vague awareness that I was wet.
Naturally, sometimes, when I got home from school or college, or more lately, work, I would masturbate, but it was never with much connection of the events of the day, or what was the slow build of anticipatory need.
Now, however, I allow myself to become aware of those special moments. At work, I can feel those days when I can't focus, and that now leads to an examination of myself. I stand there, talking to clients, but keenly aware of the moistness gathering between my legs, and the heightened sensitivity of my breasts. I use the images of my clients to add to the sexual tension. Yesterday, I was talking to a young women of 18. Clearly in every way a virgin, I wondered about her body, her pussy, and how and indeed, if, she takes care of her feelings. For a moment, I wondered, as she sat opposite me and talked, about what her panties looked like, and unbidden by me in any way, she crossed her legs to reveal the briefest glimpse of pale green cotton.... and a slightly darker stain right in the middle.
She left my office and my next client, a middle aged man came in. I noticed the wedding ring and wondered if he had fucked his wife that morning. I wondered, if I took his cock into my mouth, if I would taste, among the heat of his urgency, her lubrication on his shaft.
A half hour gap to the next client, and I allowed myself to sit for a moment and concentrate (with great ease) on the warmth and wetness between my own legs. I pushed. Do you know what I mean? (The girls reading this will) I pushed in that special way only a woman can, and was rewarded by that distinct feeling of wetness flooding me.
I reached down, raised my skirt and looked at the blu panties I had chosen this morning. The crotch, the very centreline, darkened almost to blackness.
I love the car park, partly as a result of another contribution here some time ago. I love the smells. I love the disgust of men (and sometimes women) urinating in the stairwells.
Perhaps it was for that reason that I got into my car, locked the doors and waited for the courtesy light to extinguish, before lifting my skirt up and spreading my legs until they were pressed hard against the unyielding surfaces of the car. More teasing, more pressure, more agonising need and lust. Stepping from the car and into the stairwell, I listened hard, before squatting down and adding my own urine to that already staining the concrete floor. Peeing in my panties has always been a very special treat for me, and one I do not allow myself often.
Back in the car and home. Home so quickly. In the garage, I could wait no longer, I lay on my back over the warm hood and lifed my skirt. Pulling my panties to one side, I let my mind work. 'HE' was there. 'HIM' with his evil intent. 'HE' forcing his way inside me ignoring my protests as he raped me to a powerful shattering orgasm.
My husband coming home later. And what a night HE had.