You already knew I loved being filmed and photographed; watching back on clips of myself being violated or made love to makes me wet, almost instantaneously. I love the weekends when, if I’m good, you set me up at the computer and make me watch them without touching myself – sometimes you even tie my wrists behind my back so I can’t, whilst you edit the best bits and then email them to your colleagues as a reminder of just how good I am. Just enough of my face to see the come dribbling down over my lips. Unrecognisable at office functions in my grown up dresses and cocktails and mild political views.
There was one evening. I replay it a lot when I’m alone. There were only minutes, a brief meeting in wintry darkness, midnight in a cab rank. Me leaving a team building works night out, you leave a gig.
We agreed to meet before we travelled home. You stood with your hands in my pockets, pinning me in place, drawing my thick winter coat around us as we kissed and I worked my knickers down as surreptitiously as possible and as soon as my cunt was bare one of your hands was reaching out, teasing me.
I broke away to double over and remove them and the movement of my hips and how very wet your mere presence makes me allows your fingers to enter me. I straighten, stuffing them into your pocket and resting my head against your chest, the fingers as ever remorsefully pulled from my cunt and I lick them clean as you hold me.
“Up-skirt shots on the way home. I love you.” you murmur into the top of my head. One last kiss and off I go to catch my bus. Taking those shots was fun. The top deck was empty and I sat right at the front, resting my legs on the safety bar before me so I could get a clear image of my dripping slit.
Cab gets you home in ten, bus takes half an hour. Rounding the corner on a third set of traffic lights the first photo comes through. The bulge I felt through my winter dress. Your cock straining in your underwear. My knickers laid out on your kitchen counter top. And then the call.
“How busy is it?”
“Not at all.” I know this will disappointment, but I can’t control passenger flow.
“Bad girl. You know I prefer it when you have an audience. Unbutton your dress.” I obeyed and photographed my frock gaping obscenely.
“Good, do you know what I’m doing right now?”
Your breathing is ragged. I can picture it so clearly, I almost don’t need the photos, to see your cock bound in my damp, sticky underwear.
“You want it, don’t you? Say you want it. Tell me how much you want it.”
“I want it. I wish I was there with you.” I know I’m getting wetter and wetter. I know I could touch myself, but what I need is to be fucked, to be filled.
Two older men, older than you by decades, clamber up the steps. Drunk, probably. They talk in dipping voices about pubs and sports and bets.
“You’re not alone any more, are you?”
“Tell me how wet your cunt is, Kirsty.”
Deep breath. Clear voice, singing out over the hum of the engine.
“Sir, my cunt is dripping wet and all down my thighs because all I can think about is your cock.”
You can tell when someone’s ears prick up. The S word makes them turn across the aisle and look at me. Demure, if in a slightly unladylike position, with my legs apart.
“Taste yourself for me.”
Showing off, I slink down in my seat, two fingers sliding easily inside. They’re still watching as I shove them in my mouth. Perhaps I should get tired of the taste but I never do. And I have to lick them noisily so you can hear me.
“Mmmmmmm. Do you remember how good I taste? Are you thinking about it now?”
“Oh you wicked little slut.” The catch in your voice.
“No, please wait til I get home, please please please!”
“No sweetie pie, I have to come now.”
Video call. You’re stood over the back of your sofa. Grinding your cock against it, still wrapped in my knickers. Five minutes to my stop.
“Say ‘Watching my honey come in my panties makes me fucking horny. Makes me want him to come in my tight little cunt. Makes me want to scream.”
“No!” this is too much to bear.
“Say it for me, now.” Through gritted teeth I press my thighs together and repeat, clearly, the old men in my peripheral vision, slack-jawed as they try to understand what’s going on whilst I am aware and dead to the world in equal parts, my entire body aching with uncontrollable lust as I hear you howl and see my cunt-soaked knickers covered in your come.
Some silence. The men on the bus have gone, it could have been at any time in the past few minutes. Who knows what they heard or missed. I’m aware of every hair on my body.
“Baby, are you still there?”
“Yes.” I say in a small voice.
“Call me when you get in OK? And you have my permission for tonight. Sweet dreams. I love you.”
He means a night off. I’m too wound up to come now. Everything around me is electrified. I get to bed, but with no real idea of how I made it there. Sleep is deep and dreamless, waking to Good Morning texts and the promise of breakfast.