I pushed closer to her, my body wedging her against the wall. My free hand held her wrist over her head, pinned to the wall, as my other hand explored the soft, slick, rippling texture inside her body. Her breathing in my ear was sharp and light, punctuated by panted gasps.
One of her legs was raised, her foot braced on the opposite wall of the tiny closet just behind me. Her panties dangled from her raised ankle, and her free hand clutched the collar of my coat. Her raised leg was straining and twitching in little involuntary kicks as I pumped three fingers firmly inside her, buried deep, twisting and curling. Her other leg, barely touching the floor, twisted and groped for purchase to increase the stimulation, but uselessly - the hard tile floor was far too slippery under her shoe.
My eyes were closed. I breathed in the scent of her neck, concentrating as though I were creating a mental map of the inside of her pussy, learning every inch of it.
My thumb massaged her clit so slowly, so agonizingly slowly. I felt her breath get warmer and less steady as she buried her face in my neck, her gasps breaking apart. The silk of her hair against my neck and ear only got me hotter, and I ground my hand into her, my eyes fluttering as I listened to her try to speak, able to form only broken words in my ear.
I had never done something like this. How had I gotten here?
So, who am I, and who was this girl? Well, let's start with me. The girl, on the other hand, will take some explanation. After all, this story is about me, even though I'm telling it for her.
I'm a petite woman, standing about 5'3. If I weren't in good shape, I'd be skinny. My hair is a naturally light brown - I've worn it at many different lengths and colors, but at this time in my life, about a few years ago in my late teens, I wore it feathery red - with long layers, fluttering around my ears and neck.
My breasts are small, but round. My hips are narrow and my legs long, while my shoulders are narrow but relatively square. My eyes are a dark brown - I'm told they sparkle, whatever that means. The things we tell each other.
I've always known I'm bisexual - when I was a teenager, I didn't fantasize about the attractive English professor, or the cute, blonde, curvy math teacher. I fantasized about my history teacher and his gorgeous wife - there's another story there, but that's not our topic for today.
At the time, I was working as a freelance writer for a little advertising firm in Dallas, where I've lived all my life. It was crummy work, but it paid decent, and I've never been one to work a nine-to-five job. Most of the rest of the company hated me. I was what they wanted to be - an independent contractor who came in, got work, turned it in faster than they could have, got paid, and left.
I'd never have gotten the job if it weren't for Eleanor. Eleanor was a delightful little spitfire of a woman, tough, smart, clever, and bitchy as hell when things weren't exactly the way she wanted them. She and I got along fine - I'd lost my parents in middle school, and she'd filled in the female role model I still needed at that point in my life. Eleanor had found me in college - I never graduated, I found it horribly dull - and offered me my first little bit of work, simple proofreading and editing stuff that slowly evolved into full copywriting and whatever other freelance stuff she could find. Now, the company depended on me - I did easily the work of three full-time people in less than half-time, and even though I was expensive by the hour, I still saved them a fortune.
That leads us to the beginning of our story - on this particular Saturday, I woke to the feeling of a finger gently stroking the outer curve of my ear. Slowly, things filtered into my mind, other sensations. The feeling of sheets on my bare skin. Warm, soft flesh against my back, filled in by my memory as a familiar pair of full breasts.
