Grey Flannel Skirt

I see you in your stuffy office everyday as I pass by, books in hand, on the way to class. I can see you in a grey flannel skirt and a white button-front blouse with ruffles on the chest that you just don't seem to have buttoned high enough for the school superintendent's liking. It's also a bit on the small side squeezing your large, round boobs, trying to pop them up and out. The black lace trim of your bra is peeking out ever so slightly letting everyone know that you must be in-tune with your sexy inner being and could possibly be a horny slut in subdued clothing. Underneath we can only imagine you have on a large granny panty but I'm sure it isn't. Has to be lace, satin or silk in a french cut or maybe a hot pair of boy shorts. Maybe a slutty pair of crotchless panties or maybe nothing at all. You are probably creaming yourself through the day at the sensation and titillation from knowing what the effect is of your projected slutty aura on all the male victims within their view.

You erect clit is rubbing against fabric, pushing forward in search of more friction nudging you towards the decision whether or not you should run to the ladies room and masturbate to relieve your frustration. Your clit slides between lips swelled with excitement as you walk down the hall hiding your aroused state with a larger than normal smile and high-pitched hello. But the flush of your chest lets passers-by know something is awry. Your eyes strain not to flutter as a spike of pleasure shoots through your body, the friction on your erect, sensitive clit building. Your high heels click quickly to the restroom to find an empty stall. Luck is in your favor as you find all of them empty.

Your hands are pushing down your skirt before you even get the door closed and latched, fingers diving between your thighs as you move toward the seat. You sit down and the cold is quickly warmed by the heated flesh of your behind as you settle in spreading your knees apart. Juice has coated the insides of your thighs, slathering your labia into a glistening, erotic image. The fluid coats your long slender fingers as your lips part for them, thrusting them inward as deep as you can. The bud of your exposed clit begs for the touch of your thumb. You moisten it first and then slide your thumb upward and over the taut flesh triggering your reflexes to contract the muscles of your body making you jump at the pleasure shooting inside. Your head back, eyes closed, your free hand cupping a breast, a nipple trapped between two fingers, you plunge fingers in and out of your wet, dribbling hole.

Flesh clings to flesh the friction encouraged by your own sticky lubrication. Hot, wet sucking sounds emanate from your sex and fill the air along with your low, faint moans. The bumping of your thumb against the head of your hardened clitoris pushes you closer and closer to climax. Juices accumulate and distribute randomly with each audible plunge of your hand. Your sex opens up drawing in more and more of your makeshift phallus wanting to be filled to capacity. All values, morals and common sense are thrown to the wayside as the only thing in your mind at this moment is to achieve an orgasm to satiate you wanton desire. All reality is blocked from your senses as you come closer and closer to your pinnacle focusing on nothing else other than the basic of all animalistic human desires as to cum.

The warmth builds deep inside your being as you feel the start begin. Muscles alternately contract and relax creating ecstasy in a shuddering flurry of physical events. Your thighs quiver as the rush of orgasm spreads through you, your eyes roll to the back of your head, you clench your lower lip, you see nothing yet you see all the colors and sites of the release of your own self pleasure. Juices flow in abundance from inside you creating more audible sounds of lust exciting you even further. Your hips lift and descend in answer to the lunging of your hand, meeting the rhythm as best they can. It is upon you as the sensations cascade over your body flooding your mind with nothing other than the euphoria of satisfaction.

The sloppy, creamy aftermath between your legs is affirmation of a job well done.

You feel the aches from the sustained contraction of muscle not normally used while you tidy yourself, returning to a normal state of dress and slowing open the stall door hoping to still find the place empty. In the rush of excitement there was no way of knowing if anyone had entered. You are in luck and quickly wash, leaving looking a little less stressed as you walk down the hall in a very deliberate, slow saunter.