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Make Me

Anticipation is the strongest aphrodisiac.
“I’m such a whore!” The whispered words floated from my lips without thought, mingled with the light summer breeze that caressed my exposed skin, twirled upwards in the thermal lift still present above the hot cobblestone and slid over my skin into nothingness like a silken scarf before they faded in the night.

My fingers trembled when I slipped the key and memory card between the paper sheets, and before I could have second thoughts, I licked the envelope, pulled the flap open and sent it on its journey in my mailbox with a final push. For a feeble moment of uncertainty, my pink-painted nails wanted to reverse the action and grasp at the corner of paper as it vanished in the darkness. My heart hammered like mad in my chest and my stiletto-clad feet floated an inch above the ground when I pushed the flap closed. I caught myself clutching a hand between my legs and quickly pulled it away, too afraid to take a look around if anybody had seen me. True, it was the middle of the night and the street appeared deserted, but the thought that I may have been caught almost made me panic. It did make me horny and breathless as hell.

I glanced downward and my breath hitched, the spot where the thin fabric had pressed against my moist sex visible even in the dim light of the street lamp. My neighbors only had to look outside the window to see my depravity. My hand gripped the mailbox for support.

The short walk up the drive went by in a haze, every second filled with struggles to withstand the overwhelming arousal which the finality of my decision had unlocked. I barely made it inside my door, but the moment it snapped shut, I pulled off my dress, almost ripping it in my hurry.

My legs spread and my hand was finally allowed to finish what it had already started earlier. My black slumped against the door and my vision started to flicker, while my fingers pounced on my pussy lips with the ferocity of starving wolves and started to feast on the wetness there, spreading it with smacking sounds. My pussy was on fire and each touch sent forth the tingling of thousands of pleasant little needle pricks that raced all over my body.

I was my pussy. I felt like a huge, living, breathing pussy in a world filled with a need so strong it became all-consuming.

I moaned, I hissed naughty words between my teeth, and my hand’s movement became as feverish as I felt. Forty-eight hours at most, and a stranger would know most intimate, most shocking details. Something creaked outside and my mind conjured up the image of a person standing right next to the door and listening to my desperate moans of pleasure. My body started to jerk when the fire in my gushing pussy exploded in a wave of absolute ecstasy, and my legs let out. I sank to the floor, twitching and shivering and mumbling nonsense between soft moans.

I slumped to the side and lay there for ages, panting and giggling and feeling the slight current of cool night air slip through the gap under the entrance door and tickle my wet pussy. In a bout of after-sex insanity, I wet a finger with my juices and wrote “slut” on the shiny wood of the floor, thinking how thrilling it would be to just leave it there and invite Tina over for breakfast tomorrow, to spend all morning waiting with excited trepidation for her huge doe eyes to widen or her cute nose to wrinkle.

The letters still lay on the floor where I had dropped them in my hurry, the copy of my own confession on top, filled with all the depraved little things I never would dare to voice aloud, and the return letter under it that promised me an adventure like no other. PhantaSex Inc., the name was a bit silly, but memories of all those evenings I had spent in front of my computer, verifying the company’s authenticity and finally mustering up the courage to send them my dirty secrets, came back and made me feel the thrill again.

“Make me.” I had written. “Make sure I fulfill all these dirty fantasies that I am too timid to pursue on my own. Remind me of the photos I am sending you, the dirty things that I am doing in them, and that you have seen every one of them. Strip me of my clothes and my inhibitions, and turn me into the wanton slut I am deep within.”

Crawling over the wooden floor felt so right, naked and with my tits juggling with every movement, uncomfortable to my knees and dirty and lewd. I glanced at the lines I had written and my body heated up again. Lowering my head to the floor, I used both hands to finger my dripping snatch. This was how I wanted them to find me. Three fingers slipped inside and wiggled, making my lower body shake with sparks of pleasure. I was such a slut.

He, she, I didn’t even know which, would come by next weekend. Perhaps I could greet them like this, with my snatch, puffy and raw from all the diddling, dripping musky rivulets of honey down my thighs, in full view of the entrance. My moans grew louder and my breath flew once more. My skin crackled with electricity. I could see them in my mind, staring at my shameless self-debasement, and I could hear my own needful begs and whimpers.

“Make me!” Would they touch me? Take photographs? Would they even come alone? My legs kicked out and the ball of fire exploded once more. Butterflies danced over my skin and I started to fly.

“Oh god yes! Make me!”
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