The whole of a hole

I lay on my back on a cricket outfield. The last match of the season is tomorrow, Sunday afternoon, and for the final time this year, this idyllic village that is my home will take on the appearance of the perfect village. Local pub, duck pond, and cricket on the green. 

But not today. Today, there’s just me, drinking in the last of the sunshine, lying my my back in the grass and making shapes out of the few clouds overhead.

My feet, minus shoes, are flat on the grass although splayed to each side of me, my knees together….of course, this does leave a triangle of visibility up my skirt, which, of course, is what I intended.

My focus drifts to between my legs. I know there is the thinnest layer of cotton protecting my modesty from the casual gaze of anyone passing by, and a salacious smile crosses my lips. Thin, they may be, transparent, they are not….but they do show even the slightest moisture by turning a deep, almost black shade of the darkest green. 

My focus passes through the fabric to my vagina, my cunt, my hole…..a strange word for it, ‘hole’, because it isn’t. It isn’t, so Tig tells me, like an open tube inside me. It has great capacity, that’s for sure, but normally it is closed. Yet it exudes my scent into my panties 24/7/365. 

I lie here imagining myself opening up, and I feel something deep within. Vaginas lengthen and widen in anticipation of sex, yet even now, when (sadly) no sexual activity is likely, I feel myself opening. I close my eyes and turn my attention inwards to my core. The birdsong seems to fade, and I become aware of the beating of my heart, and it’s slightly elevated rate. I can sense the pulse in my neck, and my groin, and….yes….there….my clit rejoices to join the party. Each pulse draws my attention more firmly to that firm little nub that is so tiny, yet yields such immense pleasure. 

There is nothing in my mind. Miss Brain lies dormant yet expectant. No images. No fantasies. Not even a memory. Instead, the darkening stain on my panties fills my mind. I’m lying close to the small chain fence that marks the boundary of the green from the footpath. Anyone passing by could not miss the staining on my crotch. I give a powerful internal squeeze and feel the reward of wetness running down the crack of my bum and…..yes…..slowly it oozes over my bum hole which involuntarily contracts, forcing yet more out of me.

My clitoris is on fire now, tingling between each pulse and buzzing, literally buzzing. I’m also breathing very deeply. This is typical of me when I masturbate. Just before orgasm, my breathing is deep…really deep, and my pulse rate is fast, much as it is now. But surely, delicious as this is, it’s not enough to trip me over the edge? I need….more. I know the sexual Anna quite literally inside out, and I’m not actually trying to cum. I squeeze inside again, so hard, in fact, that a little air escapes me. A queef. A pussy fart. It sounds disgustingly wet. I’m good at these, but only usually after sex when I’m trying to squeeze semen out of me. The guys I’ve been with seem to find queefs exciting. I do too.

All he did was walk by. He glanced once, twice and on the third time, his gaze lingered for just a second longer than was ‘polite’. He left me, knowing without doubt that I was wet. He couldn’t miss that black, shiny stain. It would travel with him to wherever he was going, and remain with him for some time. What would he do with it? I don’t even get to imagine, an orgasm rolls over me, starting like the sound of distant thunder before rolling over me leaving me breathless. 

Only now do I think of what he might do with what he saw. Perhaps a quick visit to a restroom and a fast jerk off imagining what he’d like to do to me. (I do rather enjoy the idea of someone doing something to me ) Or perhaps he took the image home to his wife. He wouldn’t tell her of course, but perhaps he’d ask her to leave her panties on, and as he pulls them aside to enter her, he would close his eyes and imagine he was doing me on that green? The thoughts bring on the advent of a second touchless cum. Ah….but I’m not quite there yet. 

Miss Brain decides to join in. She scans me and revels in the wetness between my legs. “Perhaps you should pee your panties now?” She hisses into my ear, like the serpent tempting Eve, but no, I am quite wet enough, thank you very much. Then she reminds me of something I wasn’t conscious of. “He was married, you know. We both saw a wedding ring on his left hand as he walked, right to left past us.” Miss Brain sometimes addresses me with the plural, in a Gollum-like canon. My precioussssss. 

A married man! Oh, how I crave having sex with a married man! Being someone’s ‘bit on the side’….someone’s whore. A man who can never be mine and yet craves every cell in my young, firm body. No, not a sugar daddy necessarily, just someone who needs the wild, unrestricted sex I adore. So many men, I think, find that not long after placing that ring, the novelty wears off, and sex becomes regimented. Twice a week, and anal or a blow job on Birthday’s and Christmas. The children arrive, and sex, pure carnal lustful sex, sex for the pleasure of it, any time, any place, anywhere sex, gets driven further off the table. Now it’s once a week, and only if she’s not too tired or doesn’t have a’ headache’. I don’t blame her. Childbearing is exhausting…or so I’m told. 

So I imagine that ‘first time’ with him. The flirting that preceded it, the unspoken moment when both of us realised this harmless fun could go further, and finally, that first time in a rented hotel room where he almost tore my clothes off me, entered me, and was spent in mere seconds. 

And there it is…the second orgasm wraps its arms around me and contorts my body on the grass. I allow myself the briefest touch of my boobs, making it look like I was brushing some errant fly away, yet the touch is powerful, electric, and serves to send sparks of pure joy directly to my hyper-sensitised clit. 

Ten minutes later, I’m walking home, drenched between my legs and reflecting on the joys of touchless orgasms. Not everyone can do it, but those who can know they feel completely different from cums where fingers, tongues or toys are involved. 

At home, I look at my destroyed ‘schoolgirl’ panties with their dark stain, inside, they are beginning to turn a creamy white as the cum dries. My God, we are powerful, aren’t we? That….that mess, capable of cleaning my vagina, lubricating it for sex, and carrying my readiness for sex on the air with its pheromone-laden scent. 

I toss them in the laundry. I have no doubt Dani will notice the extra-heavy coating I’ve left on them. I’m sure she will allow herself a wry smile, not knowing what I’ve done, but knowing I’ve done something. Perhaps she will masturbate using them? Who knows? Maybe she might even take them out of circulation for a few days. I know she’s done that before. 

My mind turns onto something. I’ll never know for sure, but I think most, if not all girls have, at some point in their lives, had at least one sexual thought about another girl. Maybe it was little more than “Well….I’m not saying I would never do anything with another girl but…..” Or maybe it came unbidden while their partner was eating them out…especially if he was doing so with some finesse. Maybe she lay where and the  thought “It’s another girl” flitted unbidden across her mind and made her cum. Maybe, as I know now Dani does, and, as I did (still do sometimes) a girl has taken a quick sniff at a friend’s panties from the hamper. I’d love to know, especially from straight women…have you ever, even if fleetingly had a sexual thought regarding another girl?