A Long Hard Look (part 1) – Sex Stories

Or I could stop blaming biology and genetics, and blame it on the fact that I sleep naked.

The hairs aren’t the only things that raise on me. My nipples harden, as if a wave of cold air slapped my breasts across the front of my chest. Something exciting about that stirs me. I’m a very sensual person and if I’m excessively wet or my nipples are spontaneously hard, I must finish myself to orgasm. Now, however wasn’t a good time. It would look rather peculiar if I was late (and failed the course) on account of a much-needed orgasm. I’ve been horny for three weeks and sometimes I wake up, my pussy salivating like a rabid alley cat. I kick off the sheets, my neck sweating and my lower torso sensitive to every touch. My fingers think nothing of walking down my flushed stomach and delving straight into those welcoming yet edgy folds, that incessant stream of feminine sex juice that flows steadily (and sometimes messily) onto my thighs. That is when I really appreciate the cold air wavering over my body as my hairline drips sweat, my lungs pumping hard as I wished I were being pumped, but with semen rather than air.

Thinking about it got me more excited. I slip on my fleecy dressing gown and run to the lavatory else I’ll be late. I hastily throw it off and turn on the shower. It takes just seconds for the water to heat up, but it feels dead nice when I step in the small cream-colored cubicle. The warm stream of water softened my nipples and I rubbed my delicate hands over my generous 34C breasts. I’ve always been proud of my breasts. I wore low cut blouses and jumpers; older men and teenage boys ogled my chest. I had loved that fiery, wolfish look in their eyes, after they looked at me and then turned their heads to see where I was headed off to. It made me feel more liberated and wanted as a woman. I’ve always got turned on by that kind of voyeurism/exhibitionism. I really want that in  my first sexual relationship.
I continued to massage my breasts and the shampoo in my hair. Several drops of pomegranate-scented foam landed gently on my tits. It reminded me of whipping cream- and brought on the urge to masturbate. My vaginal opening is as slick as oil and i do not hesitate to plunge my fingers into the lusty abyss between my legs. I can only fit one finger in, being a virgin but I try for two, to get the complete feeling of a man’s thick, throbbing phallus. I tickle my front wall, as that’s where my G-Spot is. In and out, in and out, my fingers twisting round to give me the feel of riding a man, his hard penis pulsating as well as his heart. I hear his steady mantra of moaning. I moan as the water hits my back and trickles down the gentle bow of my legs.

Sometimes my entire body is a sexual organ. When I begin touching the right spots (and even the most unsuspecting!), it is like pressing a button to make the juices start flooding, to harden my nipples and to paint a red flush across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. I’m licking my lips expecting a jet of hot white cum to flood my mouth. And it sends me across the stars, as I fly on silver wings, orgasming one, mmmm two, oh! three, oh my god yes, four, yes! yes! YES!, five OHH YES!, as my voice elevates and seeing as if no one’s around, I scream and moan and arch my back to get the full rush.
One, two, three, four, five…
Bloody hell! Like seconds on a clock… I check the time on the waterproof clock in the shower. it is now 5:45 and I have to be at my exam by seven. I haven’t even finished my hair. I anxiously squirt the cream rinse in, lather up my body (and take extra time for my pussy) and rub the wash cloth down my legs. Why am I such a nymph? I ask myself. There’s no time to answer that, I should be studying and reviewing for the exam. Okay, what did we learn first? Greek or Roman theatre? Greek. What play talks about penis envy? Oedipus Rex. What is bunraku? Indian… no wait it’s Chinese… damn it I can’t remember it will probably come to me.
I get out of the shower, vigourously rubbing my hair till it’s dry enough to iron. I run the red-hot metal through my hair, brushing it from side to side so it will dry quicker. Like my breasts, I am quite vain about my hair. If it doesn’t look good, if it falls flat then I have a bad day altogether. Typical woman that I am.

I still feel groggy and find my way to my room. I neglected to bring any clothes with me to the bathroom as I assumed everyone was still asleep. Except my dad but he was at work already so it was really just me that was awake. I turned on my light in my room and to my shock, the window was wide open! Slightly humiliated, I closed it. There are lots of neighbours in our district and the majority of them are twenty years and older. Some are married, some are single. Some sit for their tea in their dining room that is directly from my bedroom. But as modest as I play myself to be (and as I’m sure you know from the narcissism that I have about my breasts) I quite enjoy the fact of possibly being watched; whether someone’s married or single. It is like studying a painting and being able to touch the artwork but the woman in the painting never really comes to life or reality. So that is the enjoyable aspect of it. And although some take pictures, I find that cheating. It is best to watch and to live the moment, to see pure rawness and nakedness before your eyes, without the use of a camera or any of those silly devices that people use to blackmail you.
So there’s a doubt in mind that someone was even watching me. Blinds closed, I dress into a long black skirt, high heels and a red and black blouse. My hair hugs my high cheekbones and brings out the hazel in my eyes. I sweep the kohl brush across my eyes, bringing out even more green; I accentuate my lips with a wine-colored lipstick and I freshen myself up with Burberry perfume. Thats the only apparel that I wear to bed. Pretty damn sexy for an exam, I tell myself, giggling childishly. I bring my purse, au complet with my mobile phone, cigarettes and my money. After my exam I’m going to the shops to do some Christmas bargain hunting (yea, right!). I lock the door and wait for the bus to take me to school.

The exam’s easier than I thought it would be. I fly through it, (my damn pencil breaks a few times but hey I finished it!) and the teacher shakes my hand.
“Thank you for all your hard work, Judy.” she says, with a genuine smile on her pretty face.
“Oh well I hope to be back in one of your classes soon,” I reply, very flattered and pleased at the compliment she had given me. I slightly beam all the way to the bus stop; Dad said he’d be meeting me there after he’s finished work. I looked at the time on my mobile phone. It was 11:30 am, and he’d be finished at 2. So it gave me plenty of time. I was getting pretty bloody impatient as I waited with the wind chilling me and the snow dampening my hair. The waiting booth had a peculiar smell; cold,stale urine probably. It made my stomach turn. I lit one of my smokes to mask the smell and soon the musky, heady tobacco filled my lungs. I smoke before and after a stressful event that’s happened, like an exam. I bloody hate exams. And lots of tramps and bagheads lived around the university, anyroad so it made sense to mask the nauseating smell with an earthier aroma.
But in no time, the bus came panting up the street. The doors opened and I stepped on immediately. The bus driver regarded me with a peculiar look in his eye, almost a wink. He was quite good looking. Sparkling blue eyes, a coarse, rugged goatee with flecks of dark gold and straight white teeth. I’d love to have his sweet mouth licking my lips- both sets! He was at least thirty, I guessed. I’ve always fancied older men. More experience, and wisdom. More mature. And more understanding, though I’ve never been with one. They just seem passionate and patient. He always smiled at me whenever I boarded, but today he regarded me almost sexually. I paid my fare. Then he said the magical words.
“There’s a window seat at the back.”
“Ta,” I said. I went to the back of the bus and sat down. I caught him intermittently looking at me even as I stared out my own window. We blurred past houses on the way to the shops. When the bus stopped there I got off and he said cheekily,
“You were looking very fine this morning.”
“Thank you.” I said, “Have a wonderful Chrimbo if I don’t have any more exams before then.” I blushed at his sweet words. He only saw me for a little while though, in my coat and long skirt. I wonder if he caught a glimpse of my legs. They were hidden, though in my tall black leather boots. Perhaps, then it was my makeup. I’ve always been told I have sensual eyes and lips. He couldn’t really see my cleavage.
Oh well, I said to myself, he’s a proper sweetheart if he’s paying me compliments like that. I look in the window of where I work. I sell lingerie at an independent boutique, Mae West. Our specialty is unique  brassieres. I always admire those mannequins, the ones who model the demi-cut bras and the lacy, sexy knickers. I imagine myself modelling those one day, just buying a load of lingerie and dancing around with them,

windows ajar.
And as I bypassed the store, the truth slowly walked with me. I stood still and the patrons seemed to be blurring past me.
You were looking very fine this morning.
My eyes widened. My mouth opened and closed as I tried to bring a hand to cover it. My heart raced. My nipples hardened. My blood baked. And my thighs were drenched.