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Sunday, January 30, 2005

Mirror mirror 

You never know when horniness might strike. It could be at work, travelling on a bus, or during a business meeting. And when it does strike, you have three options: ignore the feeling and continue with what you were doing; postpone the feeling until you make it somewhere safe to play; or indulge yourself there and then until your horniness is sated - which is where I found myself a few days ago, in an world famous department store’s lingerie section, attempting to pleasure myself silently.

The horniness came out of the blue. I was trying on bras in the changing room, hoping to find something that would be simultaneously comfortable to wear to work as well as being unbearably sexy to all who looked upon it. (An ambitious wish I know, but I discovered a gorgeous Vanity Fair satin number and ended up buying it in three different colours).

Anyway, there I was, stripped down to my panties, doing the old ‘lift, hook and fasten’ and I became aware of something: my nipples were erect. Pointing out like bullets. Even with the stifling temperature of the changing room. Hmm. Interesting. I pick up another bra, lift my breasts into the cups, fasten the back and arrange the straps. They’re still pert. I can see them sticking out through the material of the bra. I look at my reflection and am struck by how hard my nipples look in the mirror. I look in the mirror and reach my hands up over the bra, cupping both my breasts, grazing my fingers against my nipples and feeling them harden like buttons. It transfixes me. I can feel myself getting turned on. I can see myself getting turned on. And this turns me on even more.

Now I know this can be seen as indulgent narcissism - experiencing pleasure from observing my own reflection – but it wasn’t looking at myself that was getting me horny. It was by looking in the mirror at myself that I could imagine what my lover would see and do to me, and this was what was making me so wet.

When I saw my nipples poking through the silky material of the bra, I imagine him standing behind me, his hands sliding up around my waist, and over my breasts, letting his fingers linger on the nipples, caressing them as he feels them harden under his touch. I run my hands over my breasts cupping them and imagine it is his hands I feel squeezing them. I fantasise about feeling his soft wet kisses on my bare skin. I pretend he is behind me, pressing his body into mine, his hard cock against me. When I graze my fingers against my wet panties, I imagine it is his hand rubbing me between my legs, watching me, pulling down my panties and sliding himself into me. I want him to be here, to know that I am wet because of him, that I want him.

I look at myself in the mirror. My pupils are dilated. My skin feels electric. My breath is heavy. And my pussy is so wet. I begin to rub. I am him. He is touching me. It feels so good, I am getting carried away. I close my eyes, step up the pace, slide a finger inside.

All of a sudden:

“Miss? Do you need any help in there? Did you try them all on yet?”

Snap back to reality: I remember where I am. The lingerie sales assistant wants to give me some more bras to try on. She doesn’t know I am standing in front of the mirror with my hand between my legs. This isn’t a good place to have a frig – crazy horny or not. I need her to get off my back, so I make some feeble excuse about having to take a phone call and that I’ll return shortly after to continue the fittings. She leaves me alone.

I know I’m not gonna be able to finish myself off here, but the horn’s got the better of me and I need to fix it – now. So I throw my clothes on, grab my stuff and leave the department. I try to find a toilet to complete the task, but the department store is huge, I end up going up and down the escalators three times before I find a busy ladies toilet. By the time I get there, I am throbbing. But there’s no short guest-list-type line for horny girls, so I have to queue up like everyone else and wait. It almost kills me, having to stand there pussy pulsing away like a fucking motor. But I finally get to go into one of the stalls and I prepare myself for the task at hand:

Remove ipod - check
Remove hat – check
Remove scarf - check
Remove coat – check
Remove jumpers (x2) – check
Pull down jeans – check
Pull down thermal leggings – check
Pull down panties (wet) – check
Slide hand in between legs – check
Notice the 1 inch gap between the door and the wall – check

What? There’s a gap? I forgot about these public toilets. English people won’t know what I am talking about here, Americans will: for some reason, in public toilets, either side of the door is a gap. Large enough to see into. I’ve never figured out if this was some governmental rule to prevent drug usage in public toilets, or whether the people responsible for building these loos were just bad at measuring up. Either way, it makes for a somewhat frustrating experience should you choose to masturbate in one of them.

Which is where I found myself – having to not only silently frig myself into oblivion, but also position my body in such a way that I couldn’t be seen through the gap either. A difficult task, yes. But, I am pleased to report, not impossible. With a queue lining up around the toilet, I played to my hearts content, thinking about the man (and the mirror) and a short while later, all was well in The Girl's world.

And I managed to buy 5 bras too, so all in all, a fun afternoon.

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