True Sex Stories: Amusing Myself

I came home from the gym to an empty apartment. The roommate had taken the train down to Paris in the morning, so I knew I had the place to myself.

Not having enjoyed the usual midweek ration of sex, I felt particularly horny. Masturbation at bedtime the night before wasn't enough.

I stripped to panties and bra, went to the bedroom for a blanket, and threw it over the dilapidated chair in the living room. One foot planted to the floor, my calf lowered over the cushion of the seat. Straddling the armrest, I pressed my chest against the back of the chair. Through the layer of cotton covering my crotch, through the thick woolen blanket, through the leaf patterned upholstery, I felt the unyielding hardness of wood. Sliding my cunt down, raising and lowering my pelvis, adding torque with my hips, I dragged my pussy against the arm.

A hand covered each tit. I held the swells of my breasts. I squeezed the flesh. The pressure of hands deformed their rounded curves. I compressed and flattened the tits against the harder muscle beneath.

I bit my bottom lip. Friction peeled apart the lips of my cunt. The moistness between my legs had darkened the gray fabric. The wet spot spread as I moved. I felt the incipient stickiness over my pubis.

Arms wrapping the chair, I pushed my body mass against its rising back. My pelvis gyrated.

I unclasped the bra. The straps fell over my shoulders. I cupped my breasts and pushed them together, narrowing the cleavage. The areolae had assumed a deep blush and were several shades of pink darker than the surrounding skin. I used my nails as pincers: pinching, gripping, pulling, twisting. The sharpness of the painted fingernails excited the nerve endings. Blood vessels inside the spongy nipples filled up. The nubs thickened, the integument pebbling over, acquiring the texture of leather. I tightened my grip. I plucked at the hardened protuberances. Hands rolled in circles over my tits.

Closing my eyes, I pumped my hips. Hunching down, rotating the pelvis, adjusting the touch of pussy, I improved the angle of contact. The panties had bunched. Looking down at the imprint of the labia in the cotton, I saw the shadow of the cunt as well. Reaching in, I pressed a finger in the space between the swollen lips.

I licked the nascent arousal from my index finger and spun my hips down faster. I ran my hands over my thighs. I gave my buttocks a loud spank. My breath became shorter as I moved.

Five minutes in, I paused long enough to whisk my panties off. My fervor had soaked the fabric, leaving the cotton drenched. My sexuality had a sharp odor. It filled my lungs and widened my eyes.

Naked now, I reverted to the previous positioning. My hand rubbed across my pussy. Fingers undressed the clit. The pads of the fingers held a long note there. I shrieked out a desperate moan.

I folded my arms and lowered my elbows against the back of the chair. My breasts dragged against the coarse wool, as did my cunt. My back made an acute angle. Pelvis pressing against the rounded edge of the wing of the chair, I drove the cunt against the face of the arm where it flattened, the clit climbing on top of the rest and sliding down again. The rise of the chair nestled into the pit of my arm. My hand lowered along the upholstery in back as far down as I could reach. Holding my chest to the chair in a rough embrace, I swivelled my hips forward, halted abruptly, reversed direction, and then pivoted forward again. I fucked the shabby, ricketty chair as though it were a long sought lover.

To masturbate, I could have touched my pussy, fingering the cunt, fingering the clitoris. I could have produced a vibrator or a dildo. I could have affixed clothespins to my lips and my nipples. I could have wadded the underwear in a ball and stuffed it into my vagina. I could have brought ice from the kitchen and let it melt over my flushed skin. I have done all of these things. But not today.

Today, I humped the chair like a bitch dog in heat. I rutted my cunt over the arm.

Eyes squinched shut, jaw hanging down, my forehead creased with the ascending pleasure. I wheezed for breath like a long distance runner at the end of a race. My pussy drove against the scratchy wool.

The clock on the wall tolled the minutes: two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen.

First my back stiffened and elongated. Then I experienced a cramping in my toes. My feet arched down. My neck stretched out. The muscles in my thighs tensed up. An enormous intake of air turned my belly concave. My breasts stuck out. The jaw clamped shut, and the teeth bit down. The nerves in my clit had electrified. The muscles inside my cunt convulsed. The waters splashed from my pussy. Droplets of ejaculate beaded over my upper thigh. I squealed in my ecstasy.

The breath returned to me after the orgasm in heavy gasps. I held my head in my hands. My body shook in convulsions of laughter.

Hauling myself to my feet, I dried my thighs with paper towels. I retrieved a fresh pair of panties from the dresser in the bedroom and selected a t-shirt that fell to my hips. Padding into the kitchen in my bare feet, I boiled water for tea. Opening the small refrigerator there, I contemplated dinner.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root (fhg.teachmefisting.com)