Sleepyhead

Impulse Control

My body was on fire.

I felt like someone walked in, lit a match on my hair, and just skipped away, chuckling. Not even caring that I stood there on fire, burning away my entire existence. 

There was no way my skin wasn’t flushed the color of a tomato and trickles of sweat weren’t dripping down my forehead.

Ah yes, the familiar signs of desperation. Thanks to one Harry Styles and his grinding session of what dreams are made of, I was feeling a bit...well...

Horny isn’t even the word to describe it, really.

I was feeling completely and utterly unsatisfied. Like someone offered me a slice of pie, let me dig my fork into said slice of pie, and then ripped my fork from my hand just as that delicious pie was about to touch my tongue. And I was sitting there, drooling for that fucking slice of a pie.

(If you haven’t caught on yet, the pie was a metaphor for Harry’s dinagling.)

With a sigh, I waved my hand in front of my face, hoping for a little air. God, it was stuffy in that kitchen, wasn’t it?

No. It wasn’t stuffy. 

I just needed a breather. You know, I needed to let out some steam. Relax. Close my eyes and just revert to a happier place. I needed a release.

Oh.

I needed a release.

Nothing like a nice bout of rubbing one out after a certain celebrity slams his groin against you.

Except, too bad, I wasn’t exactly in the privacy of my bed. Secured by the thought that the other girls were sound asleep in their beds and there lacked any cameras or windows. This building had more windows than walls and I was certain there were cameras scattered about.

Nothing like a fifty year old man watching security tapes and stumbling upon a teenage girl pleasuring herself in the kitchen.

Yeah, no.

Even I’m not that crazy.

I may be the wildcard, but that’s a bit much.

My eyes darted to the toilets. I was certain to find some privacy back there. Enough privacy, that is, to wank one off and certainly feel a lot better about the fact that Harry Bloody Styles had his bloody manhood pressed against me without so much as a bone tossed my way.

Thanks for that, by the way Curls.

Groaning, I shifted again. God, why did my shorts suddenly feel so fucking tight? Were they always like that in the crotchal region? Fucking damn, they were uncomfortable.

That, or I was just so damn turned on I didn’t know which way was up.

Okay, that was it. I was going to go back into the toilets and just let off some steam.

You know, flick the bean for a bit.

Hold up.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

Impulse control, Sutton.

Learn it. Embrace it. Live it.

My God, did I really just consider masturbation in a public place?

This tour is doing things to me.

Terrible, terrible things.

I blame Zayn Malik.

With a disgruntled huff, I composed myself. 

Get yourself together, Sutton. This is your place of work. You’re a sophisticated, innocent young woman who needs to control her needs for sex on a daily basis. You’re a human, not an animal. Humans smile politely and do their work whilst animals prowl for mates and eat food off the ground.