What She Wanted
Part 1 of 8
A week without touching she said. That was the agreement. If I wanted her attention, longer if I wanted more. I could go a few days, I told myself. A few more, a few more. With each successive message, I went a few more. It’s what she wanted, I told myself, but she told me that wasn’t true at all. It was what I wanted. No touching. Just a little longer. A tiny bit longer. And then the day would come - if I didn’t touch at all for the required amount of time, she would touch me herself.
When I finally admitted it to her, it was done. My hands didn’t even try to touch. I would wait and wait and wait until she had a weekend free. I waited almost two months.
I was so nervous standing there on her porch. Behind me the car was still warm, the driver's seat still slick. I dripped incessantly now, forbidden to wear panties, leaving a little mess everywhere I went. Every time my pussy touched the leather of my car seat, every time I absently turned on the ventilated seating in my car - on the way to work, on the way home, and just now on the long drive to her house, the cool air shooting up between my legs, coursing over and enveloping my swollen clit. My aching clit, devoid of attention for so long now. But she would touch it today. She’d promised.
The first couple of days were hard enough. It was a struggle to keep my hands away - easier during the day but harder at night. My pussy was accustomed to frequent edging and orgasms, and it demanded attention, as did my fantasies, which when I first discovered her online, had revolved around her ever since. Sure there were lots of other talented writers, and their stories had made me cum lots of time, but she was different. I’d followed her stories, lurked as a nameless follower on social media, eager to catch a glimpse of her, even a suggestion of what she looked like. She wasn’t one to post pictures, but the descriptions of her body kept me coming back for more. She was so real, this person I’d never met, seen or even interacted with because her words felt so genuine. And with each passing week, and with her tendency to mass produce erotica stories, there was always some piece of her to consume.
Obsessed? No. But this woman turned me on to no end.
My husband didn’t even blink when I told him one day - rather when he caught me masturbating to her story. He’d been reading over my shoulder, the dark room enveloping him in shadow as he watched me leaning back in my desk chair, scrolling, panting, my fingers hard at work in the little workout shorts I liked to bounce around the house in.
His fingers found my chin, then my throat, holding me tight when I jumped, surprised, terrified that I’d been caught, my brain already foggy from all the edges and locked in on her words. He whispered in my ear how he liked watching me, asked me what I was reading, and the fingers of his other hand found mine, found the wet spot between my legs, the slick slit and swollen clit I’d been teasing for I didn’t know how long. What about that story made me so hot? Oh, so it was the story, but it was also about the author. He teased my clit, helping my fingers find their rhythm as he interrogated, his other hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing ever so gently. Scroll, Princess, he said when we reached the bottom of the page. Tell me what she’s doing to you now? He knew. He felt it. And I told him how she was fucking me in this story, how her tongue was deep in my pussy, how my tongue was sliding between her slick folds, finding her clit and making her cum.
That particular story ended in me, or rather the character in the story, having multiple orgasms with a magic wand, and as soon as we got to the end, my husband guided my hand out of my pants and told me to go straight to the bedroom, strip and get on my hands and knees on the bed. My nipples, already hard, turned to hard little pebbles when I heard this, and my pussy pushed up to heat level 10. He’d never really been dominant with me before, always a loving, tender man, but that night, he’d fucked me like never before, and I’d cum more times than I could count, finally collapsing on the bed and falling right to sleep.
After that, it became a game with us, and I would pick out a story at the end of the evening, we’d read it together, and however it ended would decide how he fucked me, if I was spanked or not, and later much much more. It brought us closer, but we both understood that there was another dynamic at play here. He never questioned it or seemed concerned about it. In fact, he was pleased, excited even, knowing that I was sneaking upstairs to finish a little work, as I called it, knowing that I was playing with my pussy, and goofing on social media, and waiting for him to come up and play storytime with me.
Not all of her stories were for me, as a woman, of course - the site was full of fulfilling sex fantasies for every walk of life, and she didn’t disappoint. Many of her tales were simply wild and fun, hot and dirty, full of men and women cumming, sucking and fucking and rimming and railing, and I got lost in the words so many times, one hand scrolling my phone, the other scrolling my clit. But some of them hit me sideways in ways I simply couldn’t explain.
It wasn’t until she posted a particular story about a submissive girl being punished and not allowed to cum that I felt something else I’d never felt before - like she was really writing me, like she’d known I was there. And that night, a night he was away with to visit his sister, as I scrolled, taking in every word like oxygen, my fingers furiously fidgeting with my clit and occasionally slipping inside, something else happened - the woman in the story didn’t cum, forbidden, punished for being a naughty little slut who came without permission - and I didn’t cum either. I stopped, my fingers slipping away from my clit, feeling it pulse, so ready to take me over the edge. But she’d told the woman ‘No’, and I heard the word somewhere deep inside me. And so, I didn’t cum.
I went to bed that night squeezing my thighs together, feeling that ache, the ache the woman in the story felt, hearing that voice in my head. “Not without my permission” and “Disobedient sluts get punished.” Had I been a disobedient slut? Was I cumming without permission? The words echoed in my head, and I fell asleep that night, fever dreams leaving me tossing and turning. When I woke up the next morning, bathed in sweat, my hand went right to my clit. I needed to cum. I had to cum. I wanted to cum. And yet, just there at the brink, when the orgasm was teetering on the edge, I pulled back, fingers in my mouth, my clit screaming for attention. I’d been so close to being a disobedient slut. So close.
It was then that I knew I was in trouble.
The next night was a test of my willpower, gripping the sides of the bed as I railed on my clit again and again, hips writhing, hoping I’d tire and just pass out soon. But by the end of the night and more edges than I could count, I rolled over and fell asleep with a smile on my face. I hadn’t cum once. I was an obedient slut, and I could be a good girl if I tried really hard.
But it was harder than I thought. The morning of the third day was like nothing else. A wave of arousal overcame me, all-encompassing and unyielding. Maybe my pussy had run out of patience, overruled my mind and taken matters into its own hands. Or maybe it was some trigger I’d felt in her stories, something installed long ago, when I first started reading her, waiting patiently for the moment I gave in. Whatever the cause, there was no fighting it. No chance of keeping my clothes on, no hope of not touching myself. It was a Saturday, and my husband wouldn’t be back until the next day, and now I was there, in bed, naked and reading and about as horny as I’d ever been, masturbating uncontrollably. Only every time I got close, every time I reached the edge of orgasm, I stopped, pulled my fingers away, spread my lips apart and watched my clit dance. I gritted my teeth, swallowing down the words of defiance I wanted to scream - it was my pussy, after all, and I could cum anytime I wanted. Except I spent the entire day scrolling porn and reading stories and thinking about my place in them, and all day long I realized that what I wanted was permission to cum, and if I couldn’t get permission, then there would be no relief.
Author’s Note: I wrote this a couple of years ago when I was writing on Medium. Just a random story that evolved out of nothing. And, if you read me, you know, this is what I do. I have an image, maybe a single line, maybe an idea of an ending I’d like to get to through a narrative, but usually little more than that.
And this is the same thing. A fun, sexual adventure that came out of nowhere. Enjoy!