I will be missing for 3 days. It will not be long enough.

On the fourth, the train will leave Cleveland Ave promptly at 8:32am. I will sit left back facing forward with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, wearing a rumpled pile of laundry smelling of sex, blood, jizz, and piss. The grey sky of the Pacific NorthWest will be bright blue after seeing only darkness for the last three days. My answer will have always been ‘Yes.’

Yes, I am a dirty girl. Yes, I remember your face when you are upset with me. Yes, I remember what happens when you are upset with me. Yes, I will be good, Master.

My hands will be folded on my lap, knees together, shoes touching. I will feel your juices ooze out of my pussy from involuntary spasms as the wet spot on my department store cotton panties grows larger with every bump, jostle and stop. I will be a cocktail of you; a mocktail of me. You will promise me Lloyd Center. I will be so proud to finally be yours.

I will hear the doors open and close but I will not turn to look. A new passenger will try to quietly engage with me in a staring contest but I will sit quietly, unmoving. If I should not draw attention, make a move, nor make a sound other than the one word I am allowed to say, you will reward me by turning up the vibrator.

Between my legs, the vibrator will hum consistently and silently on Level One. I will focus on my breathing and keep my gaze straight. I will have been denied for three days – endless days of the long dexterous fingers on your right hand barely touching my pulsing clit as the fingertips on your left hand quietly squeezing, massaging and shushing my velvet lips. During those glorious three days, my mind would have been frantic and my eyes would have begged for two seconds of permission to touch my clit and be done with this game. My mouth would have told you what I want is worthless. Level Two.

You will be watching. How will I be able to serve you better? My skin will be cold from the draft of the open window above me. You will have done this on purpose knowing that the heat from my pussy will be unbearable. I will be grateful for your thoughtfulness. Level Three. The train will be busier at NE 82nd but I will be trained for this. Level Four. I will surrender to you.

“Honey? Are you okay?” someone will say. I will not react. They will walk away confused but will not want to get involved. Level 5.

I will see her board at Hollywood. She will make her way over with kindness in her eyes but malice in her actions. I will blink, trying to blink her from existence. Blink. Level 6. Blink. Level 7. She will ruin everything.

My pussy will be aching, confused at this level of sensation so quickly. The prickle in my loins will be roaring, beating down my defences. I will need Lloyd Center like my life depends on it.

“Oh my god, I recognize you,” she will say, stumbling with her words. “You’re the missing woman!” Level 8.

“Edge.” I will be forced to whisper through strained lips. The vibrator slows on cue. I will close my eyes to savour the tingling feeling but it is fading. I will breathe out raggedly and my body will shake uncontrollably but you will not hold this against me. You will be a gracious Master.

“Sweetie, you’re not making any sense. Can you hear me? Let me get you some help.” She will move to the emergency phone. I will not dare breathe. Level 8.

As she is walking away, I will shake my head accidentally, unconsciously, and utterly unintentionally. You will not care. The vibrator in my slopping pussy will pulse slower… slower… slower. Finally, there will be nothing.

The doors will open and I will be officially approached at Lloyd Center.  My bloodshot eyes will move to stare through her. I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you, Master. Please do not think of discarding me.

“Don’t worry sweetie, you must be in shock,” she will say with authentic uniform tones as she will wrap a blanket around my shoulders to try to calm my chattering teeth. “You’re so lucky we found you.”

 

Masturbation Monday
Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked