It hits around 3 PM, that dull throb in my office chair, the one that squeaks like a dying cat every time I shift. The spreadsheet’s the usual nightmare, Q1 sales for the Morrissey account, numbers blurring as my Primark jeans dig into my hip bone. My thighs clench. Pussy humming hot and heavy, and it won’t quit. By home time, it’s a full-on demand.
Clothes hit the floor in a tangle, jeans inside-out, and a bra snagged on the door. The lock clicks for privacy; the neighbour’s nosy enough as it is. The light’s dim, just enough to see the mess I’m about to make. No toys tonight. Just my hand, raw friction, edging till I’m stupid with it. Which sounds dramatic for someone in Primark jeans, but there you go.
I flop on the bed, and the pillow feels colder than I expected. God, why is everything slightly wrong today? Faded floral sheets cool my back for a second before my heat takes over. There’s that stupid little pink bleach stain near my left hip, from when I tried to dye these sheets last summer and got bored halfway through. I always notice it at the worst times and then forget to throw them out. One finger parts my lips, swollen and slick, with that tacky little sound that makes my stomach pull. I circle my clit hard, and blood jumps under my skin. My nipples are already tight and scraping the air. A sharp hiss escapes me before I can stop it.
The room starts to smell like me. Sex and sweat, or maybe just sweat, and that warm, dirty edge I pretend I don’t like.
My phone buzzes. Who the fuck? My mum is asking if I’ve eaten, like I’m going to whip up a roast on a Tuesday when I’ve had crisps for lunch. I swipe it silently away, but the interruption sticks; my thighs tighten more from irritation than anything. My breath comes in these short, ugly little bursts. Not sexy porn breathing, just… wheezing. I’m not surrendering. I’m stealing this, why do I even bother?
The slow circles, they aren’t doing enough. For a second, I think it’s coming fast. That sharp curl starting low in my belly… but it just flattens out into nothing and leaves me more annoyed. I ease off, flex my fingers, and stare at a crack in the ceiling I keep meaning to complain about to the landlord. A couple of breaths. Then I go back in, harder, because now it feels like the itch is sitting there, smug, like it knows I’ll cave.
Dave from accounts flashes into my head for no good reason. Absolutely not. I don’t even fancy him; he just has one of those faces that turns up everywhere. Just me. Wet enough… Obviously. I’m soaked, embarrassingly wet. I sink two fingers into myself, and the wet squelch is loud in the quiet room, dripping again. My sock had bunched under my heel. My thighs start to shake, fine and electric, and I spread them wider until my hips are straining. The ache coils viciously in my gut.
Sweat slicks my ribs and beads between my tits. The sheets bunch under my heels, those same stupid florals i bought because they were cheap, and that same squeaky chair is waiting for me tomorrow, I think, because my brain is rude like that. My clit grinds under my thumb with relentless pressure. My hips buck in a sloppy, graceless rhythm. “Shit… uh… yes, fuck.” I rasp, my throat dry and scratchy. I reach up and pinch a nipple, harder than I mean to; the sting snaps my focus back down where it belongs. My asshole twitches in a tight, sympathetic little pulse. My toes curl into the damp fabric.
The air feels thick and used, my breath coming out mangled. Every nerve is buzzing. My pussy clamps down around my fingers, wet-tight, greedy. My brain goes a bit fuzzy round the edges, thoughts slipping. My sock itches. My calf suddenly seizes, a stupid, sharp spasm biting into the muscle. “Ow, fuck!” I blurt, half-laughing, half pissed off at myself as I yank my leg straight and rub it with my free hand. I should’ve gone for a piss first, and some water, and maybe stretched like a normal adult, but I never do. The moment wobbles, almost drops, and for a second, I think I’ve lost it completely.
I don’t. I push back in, wetter now from sheer frustration, fingers driving deeper. The build isn’t clean this time; it’s messy, all over the place. Part of my head is still muttering about emails and that crack in the ceiling while the rest of me chases the edge. It’s not fireworks or anything. It’s just this long, messy shake that feels a bit out of control. My fingers are buried as deep as they’ll go, my palm slapping hard against my mound, wetwetwet. Hot, messy gush spills over my hand, splattering my thighs, pooling sticky and warm under my ass. “Fuuuck,” I choke out, more of a broken sob than a word. My vision goes fuzzy around the edges. My clit throbs, almost too sore, and my thighs clamp down like a vice, no, more like some panicked reflex, trapping my wrist as my body shudders through it.
It’s good. Not the best I’ve ever had, but good enough that my legs feel like jelly, the aftershocks still twitch through my muscles. Little whimpers fall out of me anyway, half from pleasure, half from the sheer relief of finally getting there. Then it drains out, slowly, leaving me boneless and damp and a bit ridiculous. My heart hammers against my ribs. My pussy feels gaping and wet and kind of overused in that way I know I’ll feel tomorrow when I sit back in that stupid chair. The sheets are wrecked, dark patches spreading around me; that pink bleach stain is barely visible now. The flat is suddenly very quiet, too quiet, and for a moment I feel painfully, stupidly lonely in it.
I should get up. Wash my hands… nick one of the sad Tesco meal deals from the fridge, drink some water… try to be a normal adult for five minutes instead of just lying here leaking on old flowers. I don’t move. The chair at work is going to squeak worse tomorrow. It always does. Same stupid chair, same stupid sheets, same itch. Same thing again, probably.
