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You're only sitting here because your computer at home

is broken. Yes, the old 400 Mhz has surfed it's last

erotic story site and taken with it every last story

you archived to a hidden folder.

"Thank God for libraries," you think, glancing around

quickly to make sure no one is looking, before pulling

up the latest Couture story. No, they aren't the best

written stories out there, but they never fail to make

you wet.

Yes, there's a new one! You bring up MSN, and switch

your active window back to the story; just in case you

need to clear the screen in a hurry.

As you read the story, your thighs squeeze together,

wringing moisture from the soaking sponge that is your

cunt. Your hand strays to your breasts, not for

pleasure, but just to make sure your nipples aren't

advertising your secret hidden thoughts like two

beacons flashing from your chest.

You continue to read. Your thighs begin their now

familiar rhythmic motion: Squeeze, open, close-

squeeze, open, close. Your thoughts are interrupted

by the aggravating squeaking of a chair. Blushing,

you realize it's your chair.

The story is about two young girls dominated by two

older women in a public restroom. The story makes you

particularly hot, because in just a few minutes, you

will be the one doing something naughty in the library

restroom.

You squeeze your thighs together again, priming the

pump as it were. You feel your pussy open as your

thick labia pull apart. It's hungry, you realize;

smacking its lips in anticipation of being fed. At

home it would get to feast on a trusty vibrator as you

indulged your fantasies, but today it would have to

settle for your fingers.

Your lips pull apart again. You swear you could hear

it smack this time.

'Stop that,' you think, as you look down at your

crotch. 'Isn't it enough that you make me read these

horrible stories? Why can't you like normal stories .

. .like romances? No, instead you make me come down

here to the library and risk everything for you. Even

making me get my husband to take us here.'

You realize your pussy cares not one wit for your

patronizing speech. She's as hot as she's going to

get and if you are going to keep from embarrassing

yourself, you better go to the restroom and satisfy

her hunger.

After triple checking to make sure Internet Explorer

is closed and there is no incriminating evidence left

on the computer, you get up and head to the restroom.

Once there, you check to make sure you are alone and

secure yourself in the last stall. You decide to

forgo the tissue on the lid and sit down unprotected

after every other woman that has been there before.

You ruck your skirt up, pull down your panties, spread

your legs lewdly and stick a finger in your needy

cunt, in one smooth motion.

"There, are you happy?" you ask her.

She isn't. Your hand deposits the panties in your

purse, but returns with the pantyliner.

"No," you beg. "Not that."

Your hand moves of its own volition, overruled by your

cunt. The liner soon finds its way to your nose. You

try to hold your breath, but eventually you are forced

to inhale the musky scent her arousal.

Your fingers speed, fucking her, faster and faster.

It's loud, and you wish you could quiet them - quite

her.

'This isn't me,' you think. 'I'm a housewife, not the

sort of slut that does this. That makes these sorts

of squishing and smacking noises.'

Your fingers move to your clit and circle the tiny

pearl with deft strokes born of years of practice.

'Please hurry,' you beg her, but she's still not

satisfied. She needs more. You hand begins to force

the pantyliner in your mouth.

'No, please,' you beg silently, turning your head to

the side. 'Don't make me do that. Not here. Not in

public.'

The orgasm you so desperately crave dances out of your

grasp, leaving you there, gasping, sweating, and

hanging by a thread.

'Oh, that's so mean, you horrible cunt.'

Somehow your lips part just far enough for a finger to

push part of the liner into your mouth. You give up

and suck the remnants of the juices from it.

'See, I've done it. You made me taste you. You made

me suck you. Please-please-please, just let me cum.'

You spy your discarded panties lying balled up in your

purse. You quickly look away, hoping she missed them.

She didn't. That wicked little cunt never misses

anything.

Leaving the pussy pad in your mouth, you hand moves

down and picks up the panties.

'No, please' you beg. 'Someone could come in at any

moment. My husband's coming back to pick me up and I

can't afford to smell like some back alley slut. Oh,

please, haven't you humiliated me enough.'

You hand pulls the panties over your head, and then

proceeds to smear the soiled wet crotch over your

face, rubbing her scent all over you, marking you,

before settling the crotch over your nose.

'Oh, you've done it now. You've broken me. Turned me

into your slut again. You've made a whore out of me.

Are you happy?'

You inhale the crotch of the panties, as you suck on

her cunt soaked liner. Hands quickly unbutton your

blouse, pulling your breasts out of their cups.

Fingers tweak hardened nipples, not lovingly, but

hard. Showing you she owns you. Your legs pull up

and spread, causing the plumbing on the commode to jam

uncomfortably into your back, but that cunt doesn't

care about your back. She only wants to make you

suffer.

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She has you like she wants you now. Stripped, spread,

wearing her marks and getting fucked like the pussy-

slut you are.

You can feel your climax building quickly. It won't

be long now.

You pull the leg hole of the panties over your eye and

then reach down to the bottom of your large pocket

book.

'Please,' you beg. 'Don't make me see it. We both

know you own me, isn't that enough?'

You close your eyes tight. You won't look this time.

You don't need it. Just once, you will just cum and

everything will be okay. The orgasm doesn't come and

neither do you.

'Just one little look. A quick peek,' you resign

yourself. You open your eyes and look at the picture

of a thirty-year-old housewife and mother of two,

naked, but for a pair of panties, lying on the kitchen

floor, her hand bunched up in her crotch. It's

obvious she's holding the camera with her free hand.

Though the view is distorted from the angle, the look

in the woman's eyes is haunted and almost exhausted,

yet at the same time relieved. There is a large wet

stain on the crotch of the panties and a puddle around

her middle.

You know what the puddle is from, because the woman is

you.

Seeing yourself like that in the picture; put there

and displayed in such a fashion of lewd depravity, a

slave to your Mistress. It is enough to take you

over the top. Your orgasm bursts forth from deep

inside your loins like molten fire. Hips buck, heels

scratch the surface of the steel wall surrounding you,

and fingers stoke the fire that burns inside your

womb. Your eyes never leave the Polaroid.

After you come down from your orgasm, you take a deep

breath and give a shivering sigh of relief.

It is almost over, but not quite. You are careful to

remain exactly as you are. It is difficult, because,

now the chrome plumbing fixture digging into your back

actually hurts and there is no pleasure to deaden the

pain. You reach into your purse and extract the

camera. Steeling yourself, you close your eyes and

imagine the depravity, the pleasure, and how deeply

you have been enslaved. You open your eyes and push

the button on the camera.

There is a flash and then the familiar ka-zzzzzttttt,

as it spits out a square of white paper. As always,

you refuse to look at it, and put it in your purse.

Looking will come later.

Now comes the hard part. The part when reality seeps

back in. Ashamed, you put yourself back in order.

Panties off head and into purse, panty-liner discarded

into the porcelain bowl located conveniently between

your legs, sex and fingers dried with tissue.

'God, look what you've done to me,' you think as you

dry your fingers and still very aroused sex with

tissues.

You push your tender breasts back into the cups of

your bra, button your blouse, and then stand up to

smooth down your wrinkled skirt. You fold up the

camera and hide it and the picture in the bottom of

your purse.

With heels clacking on the hard tile floor, you make

your way to the sink. Once there, you cup your hands

under the running water and plunge your face in. You

wash your face and hands, trying to get her scent off

of you. Even after, you can still smell her - the

scent of her - her mark.

Jesus, you can feel it in your bones. She wants you

to do it again, but this time right here in front of

the mirror. Right here for anyone to see if they

should come in.

Looking down at your still tingling crotch, you think,

'Christ, haven't you done enough to me? Charles will

be here at any moment and anyone- anyone could come in

and catch me. I can't - I won't - I refuse to do it.'

Hurrying to get out before it is too late; you open

your purse and powder your face, but the tingling in

your sex won't go away.

'Please,' you beg. 'I'll get a new computer next

week. Just wait until then and we can do anything you

want. It's too risky here.'

You remove the top from your lipstick and stare at the

tip. "I can't," you whisper. "You're going to get me

in trouble."

Grabbing the hem of your skirt, you quickly raise it,

exposing your sex. Lower lips - her lips - are

painted red with lipstick, the color of arousal, the

color of sex. You lower your skirt, smooth it down

and paint the upper lips at your leisure.

After placing the tube of lipstick in your purse, you

triple-check everything, making sure that any

incriminating evidence is safely down at the bottom of

your purse and it is secured before leaving the

restroom.

Outside among the books, everything is normal. A

young girl pushes a cart of books and stops to place

one on the shelf. She glances at you, and you quickly

do a mental check, praying that you didn't leave any

outward signs of what you were doing just minutes

earlier.

The fresh air dries the wetness from your pussy as you

walk to the bookshelf and pick up a romance that you

will never read. You see a vagrant nodding off at the

table in the aisle and you walk the long way around so

you can avoid him, making your way to the front

counter. Once there, the librarian scans the book,

your library card and tells you to have them back in

two weeks.

You walk outside and wait for your husband by the

front door like a good housewife, lick your lips and

taste the flavor of your mistress.

The End