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.
Author Notes: When The PUGH Society is done, we'll go down a different path. It's What She Wanted.
Share this post