Therapy

So you wear a mini-skirt. So the hair of your cunt is visible to passersby. So the occasional one sticks out a finger or a cock or dildo. Against your lips. Rub rub. Feel the tingle. Gasp as the hard object is inserted. Hope for another against your tonsils. Warm, moist, salty. Maybe the surveillance camera is turned on you. Rejoice. You're on the internet. Famous. Raucous. Lewd. Lift your shirt now. Don't be shy.

Bright, hard nipples. Firm to the touch. Goosebumps sit atop goosebumps, red bumpy pillars of love. Cup the light, soft flesh beneath. Lift, girl, lift.

The man comes at you. He is perfection, or your projected image of perfection anyway. Yes, the computer's that good. Sculpted abs. Chest broad, but not grotesquely so. The light stride of a dancer. He wears no shirt of course. Ridiculous on this busy street, but no more so than your shocking display of swollen cunt lips. At least he's wearing pants.

Or is he? His legs are covered, but more in mesh than any fabric worth the name. You can see his purple head, now that he's come close enough, straining to break loose of the spider web that cocoons his legs. You've always wanted to date a man with the good taste to wear silk.

He stares at your chest, a smile playing at the corners of his eyes.

Reddening, you drop your shirt, but he catches it before it can shade you from his gaze. He rubs it between his fingers, and it's gone.

His fingers are deliciously chill. Against your sides, inching up your ribcage, taking firm hold of your collarbone. You pull away, but not so hard that you run the risk of success. As you arch your back, your nipples strain towards his palms. He evades. And a sigh -- born of frustration yes, but more than that, of anticipated fulfillment, escapes your lips.

His fingers dance. Down your arms. Resting in the crook of your elbow. A quick jump to the fabric waist of your skirt.

You lean forward, dangling temptations that no man -- no hand -- has ever resisted.

He smiles. You know you've met your match.

But before you can turn away, he reaches down and lifts your skirt. Your skirt that hardly needed lifting. His hand makes quick firm contact with your cunt.

Your nipples pout.

Tearing. Tearing through white silk mesh. All to get at that? Why? You almost ask yourself. But then you make contact, and you know why.

You knock him off his feet. His cock stands vertical now, wisps of cloth sticking to the moistened tip. You don't bother to remove them. With a triumphant cry you sit.

He moans. His eyes roll back in his head. Blindly, he reaches out with chill, chill fingers. Your breasts perk up. He traces circles around the tips, gives a quick squeeze, then returns to feather light touches. Enough. You lean back beyond his reach.

You pull up and almost off. It's his turn to pout. But not for long. He thrusts. You rise higher. He lifts higher to meet you, and higher still.

So you give up. Sitting back down feels more like victory than defeat. Not that you're thinking at this point. Up, down, up, down, you let him rub and touch and bring you to the brink. Then beyond. And yet you do not stop. Not now, not ever.

Rhythmic hopping. Sore, yet soaring. It continues endlessly. Then the thirty second light goes off, and you know your time is almost up.

He knows too. His brow furrows and he reaches out. You tense, your breasts are sore, but you will endure. He doesn't go there. Instead, he touches your cheek. Yes, that cheek. "My love," he whispers. "Oh my love." Then one last, great thrust. He shoots so deep you think you can taste him. And with one final shudder you, too, are finished.

#

Straighten your floor-length skirt. The frills lift suggestively, revealing nothing more than a scuff on your sensible shoes. You walk home, purposefully, to the children who await your responsible guidance. This is your life. Your reality. Your passion. You only endure the simulation because the auto-doc makes you do it. It's on a misguided quest to re-center your balance. To make you something you are not, and could never be. That bucket of bolts has a screw loose, you decide. It's sicker than it thinks you are.

So why does a decidedly unmotherly tingle electrify you just beneath your womb?