I trot up the stairs, excited about what I’m pretty sure I’m going to do. Not a really sexual excitement, more the kind you get waiting in line for a not-too-scary roller coaster. Lots of anticipation, almost no fear.
In the bathroom, I pull up my skirt, a knee-length, black, peasant affair. No underwear to deal with. As I sit on the toilet, arranging my clothes for best access and least chance of accident, I’m thinking about you watching me.
What would you like? What would be sexy? I’m feeling my way through an almost pitch dark room, vague shadows, ideas of ideas. This isn’t my fetish, at least not yet, and I don’t know the symbols, the language of this specific sub-genre of kink.
A few decisions made, I begin slowly – eyes closed, thighs spread wide – and trail my fingers delicately up and down my legs. Although it’s still warm out, my tickling touch raises a goose bump path. Outer thighs, inner, down my calves, behind my knees. Always gentle except on my ass where I pause and squeeze, digging my fingers and nails in just slightly.
And then my pussy. Now I’m turned on, by thoughts of your eyes, the touching, general deprivation and I shiver, dragging my nails over my outer labia, swollen, my inner, wet, my hole, gaping. i stop with both hands between my legs, just touching my cunt and relax.
A brief spurt. Just a few drops, so little it cools the moment it meets air. I draw damp patterns Escort Bayan on my legs, letting it cool the skin, drying as quickly as my fingers move. I watch my hands but there isn’t anything to see. It could be water. But it’s not.
Again, a bit more, more patterns, more chill, and it feels like I spend a while doing this. I can’t help but feel a little pride. Yeah, I’m kinky. Playing with my piss, that’s fucked. Maybe a bit sick. And I like that, pushing this boundary, without disgust or fear. Whatever I may think about the act itself, the fact that I’m doing this thrills and arouses me.
I fill my cupped hand, more, warm, almost hot. Quickly I rub it into my pussy, over my clit, on my asshole. Roughly I push two wet fingers into my cunt. A bit more. I try to push it in. Gravity, base physics, must be working against me, but in my mind I’m coating myself inside and out with my urine, and yes, this is getting hot.
For the first time in years, maybe decades, I purposefully touch that soft, fragile and forbidden opening. Women have many holes, I’ve used most of them, but this one… never. So small, utilitarian, this isn’t a hole to use for fun. But exploring it now brings back memories, long forgotten, of a time before puberty, before knowledge, a time of discovery when all parts are equal, all sensation equal. This time can’t have lasted long, a year, maybe two, and then the focusing Bayan Escort on the easy, the obvious and awareness of that spot faded.
Until tonight. Now it’s back to the front of my mind. It has shape, a small inverted almond, but virtually no form; the lightest touch compresses it to non-existence in the surrounding, firmer tissue. The pad of my finger would completely hid it from sight if someone was looking.
I push and the fleet moment before the cascade it swells and firms slightly – Like a tiny dick – and then the rush of the stream. I try to find the hole, but I can’t. It’s like my piss is coming into being on the tiny point of flesh I’m so focused on.
Both hands are between my legs and I have enough to drench myself to the wrists, almost washing myself in it. Another clench, a pause and I drag my hands up and over my thighs, massaging it in, feeling it so wet, not drying, dripping a bit down the sides of my spread legs. I keep waiting for the ick factor but it keeps not coming. As shocking as anything else. Both hands return to the renewed gush.
And then it ends, a second or two of diminishing, a few more drops, then gone. I’m frozen like that for several moments, feeling my hands cool, the erratic dripping into the water. Slowly, I pull my hands out and forearms resting on my thighs, I look at them. Small, wet, waiting.
I think I know what I’m going to do in Escort that moment. Just a bit, like previous experiments, barely enough to even count. But something – I can’t even define exactly what, stubbornness, a need to be more extreme, thirst for perversity – takes over and I bring my left hand to my face and before I can think about it I drag my tongue, flat and wide as it can go, from the base of my wrist, over my palm, to the tip of my middle finger.
There is a frozen second then I go into a frenzy, slurping the droplets off the back of my hands, sucking my fingers, licking between each one down to the webbing. I’m like a woman in a desert offered water into her cupped hands. Every drop is precious. I know I must look possessed, greedy for every last bit and … I don’t know why.
Finally my hands are damp only with my saliva. Every bit that was on my hands is now in me. Again I think. There is a faint, lingering aftertaste in my mouth. Vague musk and bitterness. Salt. My own flesh. All mingled together. It should be nasty but it isn’t.
I stand and let my skirt fall around my knees. I can feel the piss on my legs drying, my pussy still very wet. As I wash my hands I look myself in the eyes in the mirror. I don’t look any different although I feel I should. Surely this isn’t a minor incident. It feels like it means something but I don’t know what.
As I walk down the stairs, already preparing in my head what I’m going to say to you, I feel a last drop that had been clinging to my pussy lips slip down the inside of my leg, past my knee, my calf and finally stall at my ankle. I can feel it drying there as I begin to tell you what I have done.