One of Those Days Ch. 01

It had been three days since Jenny had last played with herself. Three days of hassles at work, traffic jams and the endless stress laden mess that constituted her busy, busy life.

As she slammed shut the front door of her tiny Kensington flat her agenda was simple, a massive vodka and a bath, followed by a self induced orgasm large enough to give her whiplash. Not that she was feeling even remotely horny, but how else was she going to get these grapefruit sized kinks out of her shoulders.

Her coat flung on to the sofa, shoes shaken off, her bag launched into the corner of the room. She stomped into the kitchen. The fridge door ripped open, vodka and fresh orange snatched from the shelf.

She mixed the drink and toasted herself. "Screwdriver followed by screw Jenny."

As the vodka started to do its work she wiggled out of her skirt and skated on sock covered feet to the bathroom. The best thing she'd ever done to this flat was to get these wooden floors French polished. It was just a pity there wasn't a willing cock to French polish, nothing sent her over the edge faster than sliding her lips over a semi-flaccid dick, feeling it stiffen as she mouthed it, running her spittle covered tongue down the length of the shaft, feeling it twitch in response as she engulfed it, sinking her finger nails into a taut male behind as lust driven hips thrust into her.

But fuck it, at least in her fantasies the cock wasn't attached to some Asshole who just wanted to pound away at her like a demented spaniel the second he got hard and she got slightly damp. Men! If only she didn't get so turned on by the raw heat of their desire she could do without them and get by with the love of Mr. Duracell.

As the bath filled she undressed in front of the mirror. God she loved her breasts. She ran her hands over them, admired the spreading darkness of her nipples. Stroked her own belly with the back of her hand, gliding lightly over her own pubis, a slight charge running through her as she did. Maybe this weekend she'd go out and try it with another woman. She'd fantasized about it enough, another woman standing behind her rubbing oil into her breasts whilst she watched it in the mirror. Arching her back into the woman's pert tits as a slim fingered and oil slicked hand slide between her legs. The tender, but insistent caress of her clitoris, whilst soft woman's lips nuzzled the back of her neck.

Jenny touched herself, spreading her labia. Her hand, the fantasy woman's hand, her touch the touch of her first lesbian encounter. She, feeling the dampness of her desire rising, imagined the woman kneeling between her legs, placing a studded tongue onto her now throbbing clitoris, using slow circular motions to take Jenny deeper and deeper into her lust.

And then she remembered the bath.

The water wasn't over the edge, but the margin was close enough for her to have to play a very delicate game of "Can I get my arm to the plug without soaking the carpet?" It was touch and go.

Having saved the bathroom from a soaking, she padded naked back towards the kitchen to mix another drink. But then she stopped. She detoured to her bedroom, grabbed her Chinese silk robe from behind the door and draped it over her shoulders. Then she slinked into the kitchen.

The last of the day's sunlight was streaming through the half open blinds over the French windows. Beyond them, the communal garden of a dozen London flats, arranged round it in a fortress like rectangle.

On the best days of the summer she sun bathed there. Spreading herself face down on its daisy strewn lawn to be sun fucked. Knowing that half a dozen curtains twitched. That behind them men watched her, created fantasies about her, imagined thrusting their rampant dicks into her soft orifices. And whilst they watched her, writing their own desires on her body, she fantasies about what they were doing to themselves. Buttons of jeans fumbled open, trembling hands grabbing at their twitching phalluses. Hands made spit slick to imitate her wet snatch. Contorted faced as they beat out the rhythm of their desire with their fists, shooting loads of hot spunk onto carpets, cupped hands, carefully placed tissues, only to slink away, rinsing their lust and shame away with a Macbeth like washing of the hands. Each of them unaware that her blood too was pounding with the addictive lust of display and desire. That as she imagined the spray of hot semen from twenty lust wild cocks in every flat in the square, that she too was gently squeezing her hips into the soft ground, dry fucking her blanket, eventually driven inside by the madness of it to finish herself off with the first sex toy that came to hand. Sometimes barely making it to the bed, her bikini bottom ripped to one side as she savagely fingered herself over the edge.

Tonight it was too late for sun bathing, but she knew there would be watchers. She went to the counter, her back to the window, bent forward more than she needed and let her silk robe ride over her upper thighs to reveal the merest hint of her neatly trimmed muff.

Even from the other side of the square she could imagine the effect she was having. She imagined the idle glances of bored men becoming more focused on the visual treat of her silk draped body, the adrenaline rush that was coursing through a dozen entranced men, driving the blood down to engorge their dicks; dicks already staining their owners boxers with the sticky fluid of anticipation. Not daring to believe what they'd actually seen in that brief glimpse.

She tossed her hair casually, slowly turned. Could almost feel a dozen men catch their breaths as they caught their first view of the band of exposed flesh. Her generous cleavage, the hint of a nipple and below, her exposed muff, trimmed to near invisibility. Let them decide for themselves, shaven or not.

She ran the fingers of her right hand up her neck and through her hair, as though casually rubbing away the tension of a hard day; masking her real intention, slowly drawing open the gap in her gown to reveal her firm, plump, breasts.

And then she looked up.

Just a peek to gauge what kind of audience she had. The square was almost post apocalyptic in it's desolation. As far as the eye could see, row after row of open curtains, empty voyeur free rooms. Not a twitching cock anywhere between here and the Thames. Shit! What a tedious day it is, when you can't even give it away.

More vodka sloshed into her tumbler, less orange. Casting her silk gown aside like a faded tart at the end of a twelve hour shift, she lowered herself into the loving embrace of hot water and Body Shop bath oils. God Bless Anita Rodick!

The orgasm would have to wait. She's be the first to admit that she hadn't learned much in this life beyond how to parallel park at speed and how to make killer sushi, but the one thing she really understood was that her orgasms and baths just didn't mix. In the first place all the thrashing about was guaranteed to soak the carpet and secondly the soap almost always gave her thrush! Sex in the bath was fine in concept, but spending the day after on all fours sponging out the shag pile with an itchy crotch was too high a price to pay! She ran a finger over the scar embedded in her right eyebrow.

The final bath time related straw had inflicted itself on her six months ago. It had been a fairly good evening up to that point, there she was being drunkenly being taken from behind on all fours by an overly enthusiastic one night stand, the bath water by this time was doing a fair imitation of the wave machine at the local leisure pool, when during one particularly vigorous thrust her soap slicked hands had shot from underneath her, slamming her head onto taps. The end result, seventeen seconds of unconsciousness (during which her thoughtful lover had banged himself over the finish line without noticing the fact that she was drowning) and a less than amusing visit to Casualty, where she'd been too concussed to fabricate a story. Yes, she was quite the celebrity at Kensington A&E, right up there with the guys who accidentally impaled themselves on fourteen inch dildos and the bloke who'd circumcised himself with the business end of a Dyson. That had been quite a night, twelve stitches and four eagerly proffered phone numbers from junior doctors!

As the water of her bath cooled around her, doing spectacular things for her nipples but transforming the rest of her body into a prune, her conviction that the troubles of this particular day could be dissolved in masturbation cooled as well. Not this day. A day like this could only be turned to the from the bad by good old fashioned fucking. The only problem, she couldn't face a night of trawling the local wine bars searching for Mr. Right, when all she really fancied was Ms. Right Now. Which is how she ended up at the Powerhouse.

Jenny hadn't realized just what a misleading term "gay bar" was. In her mind gay bars would be a heady mixture of overly masculine men with ridiculous mustaches, Polo shirt wearing dykes with similar facial hair issues and a smattering of jaw droppingly beautiful lipstick lesbians, who were her intended target for the night. The possibility that there would be NO women, hadn't even occurred to her. Jesus. Whatever had happened to gay solidarity?

In the ten minutes it had taken her to fight her way to the bar, she'd already broken the heel of one shoe, had a number of nasty encounters with a melee of drag queens, who had implied that she was the least convincing woman in the room and been told in no uncertain terms that dowdy drag was so "September the 10th," all of which had done little for her sense of humour. Of course half a bottle of vodka on an empty stomach wasn't helping.

As she staggered Long John Silver like out of the door, she decided that if the whole girl on girl thing was going to take more work than finding a bloke, she might as well go to the pub, get hammered and shag the first man who glanced at her. But before she did that, she'd have to get out of these damn shoes.

But as it happened, the first bloke who glanced at her was standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me."

Jenny looked up from the drunken tussle with her destroyed stiletto. Damn it she thought, why were all the cute ones bent as nine dollar bills.

"Won't be a minute." She chipped.

The guy looked her up and down. Placed his hand on the door frame. She clocked his wedding ring.

"Either you're the most convincing drag queen in the world or you're in the wrong bar."

Jenny smiled.

"The later. But I could say the same of you."

She nodded towards his wedding ring.

He laughed, gave her good eye contact, twinkled in a frankly heterosexual way.

"Well, even married men feel the overwhelming need to get laid sometimes. It's just easier with gay men. No fucking about, just fucking about ... if you know what I mean."

And the truth of the matter was, she did. Which is how she ended up in car park in Dagenham with her knickers round her ankles and knees up round her ears.