Dirty Girl

He tells me he wants me horny, he wants me wet, wants me wanting all day.  And I have been.  It is as though his presence has flipped a god-damned switch in me and all I can think about is my cunt, my clit, his hands, his cock, his voice, his words in my ear.

I come home to kids and dog and my SO.  Make small talk until I can get A alone, then press myself against him, rub my crotch against his, wanton and not caring if I am, filled with heat and need and greed. He laughs, puts me away from himself.  He’s busy.  There’s no time.  He doesn’t need it the way I do. Besides, I think he enjoys this little bit of torture he can visit on me. Good enough–I have a feeling we will revisit the topic, sometime soon, tonight perhaps, or in the morning.

I acquiesce, step back, pull myself together.

Later the TV is on, they are watching a movie. I am thinking about this morning, about W thrusting into me, shuddering as he spends himself inside me, his hand in my hair, his voice a growl in my ear. I can’t concentrate, not on the book I am supposedly reading, nor on the movie they are watching, not even on my own thoughts.  I am a dirty girl.

“I need a bath,” I say.

I put a CD on and light candles and run a bubble bath. I’m going to soak the dirty out of me, I think.

But I am lying to myself. I am touching myself before I am fully submerged, my fingers sliding between my nether lips, lips that are slippery with more than just bathwater, slippery with my own girljuice, and, I imagine, with W’s come, coating my insides still, even after a full day.  I sink back into the soapy water and allow myself the pleasure of gentle touch. I am tender;  the water and my fingers are soothing.  I explore my delicate, female architecture, the thin silken texture of my inner lips, the rounder, thicker outer ones, the smooth rise of my mound, and lastly, the softness inside.  I image that I am dipping my fingers into W’s come, bringing my fingers to my mouth I taste him on my fingertips. I want to be slow, deliberate, but the thought of him once again sends me spiraling up into an excitement that is hard to contain. Soon my fingers are flying over my clit, swirling and stroking, loving the feel of the slick bubble bath between my fingers and my ring.

Then, just as I feel myself beginning to crest, a memory worms its way into my mind–W pushing his finger-just one, and almost gently-into my ass this morning.  And suddenly I want something in my ass, I must have something in there…but I am just not dextrous enough to use both hands that way.  I look around the bathtub in desperation, and my gaze falls on a toothbrush sitting on the side of the tub.  The handle is just about right–not too thick, and…knobby.  Ridgy.  I don’t even let myself think about how depraved it is…I just need to come, and I need to come now

The bathwater makes the handle slip inside without any discomfort.  I don’t even need to move it around…it is just the feeling of it opening me just that little bit, widening me, and the thoughts in my head are enough to send me reeling over into a deep, shuddering climax.

I lay there for a moment, waiting for my heart to slow, then slide the toothbrush handle out and, looking at it regretfully, throw it in the trash.  I’ll have to buy A a new one tomorrow.  But I’m no longer a dirty girl–I am fairly certain I am clean inside and out.

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