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.