Wanda

WANDA was horny.

She sat on her leather couch with her knees together and her feet apart, elbows on her knees. She felt the itch, it crawled up beneath the lacy tops of her stockings, circled the bare stretch of her smooth firm thighs, dove back beneath her short black skirt, rounded her ass and came forward towards her pussy and just sat there, pulsing, driving her wild. It didn't help that the skirt was so short she could feel the cool leather just where her legs met her butt, it didn't help at all.

She squirmed in a most un-ladylike way. She wanted to bury her fingers in her snatch and rub and rub and rub until the itch went away, but she couldn't. She wanted to pull up her skirt and rub her bare pussy on the couch and pinch and twist her nipples until she completely melted down. No, she couldn't do that either, at least not yet, not until later.

So she watched the walls in her apartment, waiting. Her boobs itched, they felt heavy in the tight bustier and her nipples ached. She still wasn't sure exactly how she'd gotten it on. Her toes hurt, they were crammed into five inch black heels she'd never worn before. The skirt was so tight she didn't think if she had worn her skimpiest thong she could have gotten it on; luckily, that wasn't a problem, she was going buff. Her blouse was white and sheer and so scandalously low-cut her boobs thrust up and out like twin planets yearning for the sun, and her nipples stuck out so far she was sure they'd be spotted from the surface of the moon. The milky string of pearls she wore were so fine and lovely she couldn't resist wearing them, twirling them between her fingers -- She'd never owned anything so obviously expensive. She felt worse than naked, she felt slutty, she felt exposed.

It didn't help either that she liked it. She couldn't wait for him to see her. Where was he? She got up and tottered to the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. Was he making her wait on purpose, or was he held up in traffic? It was awful being there, waiting, anticipating.

She'd spent a good part of the evening getting ready to go out on the town, primping, shaving, fixing her hair, selecting her outfit to emphasize the affect she wanted to create. She had taken a long, luxurious bath and gotten out pink and wet and humid. When she was still drying her hair, her doorbell had rung, and when she had gotten into a robe and opened the door, a courier was standing there with a bunch, no an armful of roses, one large package and one small, and a pink envelope.

Back inside her apartment, Wanda opened the envelope to find a note written in his large, bold hand. "Darling," it read, "I've taken the liberty of picking out the clothes I'd like you to wear tonight. There is a little gift for you, it would please me greatly if you would wear it as well. I'll be by to pick you up presently. Remember, while you're waiting for me, be a good girl."

She opened the small box first, and found the pearls, a long strand of fat white globes on a string. In the large box were all the clothes she was now wearing, and nothing more. The clothes were fine, expensive, and scandalous. She'd never worn anything like them before, she'd always preferred to stay low-key, out of the notice of the roving eye, she felt safer that way.

DESPITE this predilection for anonymity, he'd still picked her out one day sitting alone at table at the bistro around the corner from her office, nibbling on her veggie sandwich and reading Annie Proulx.

"Hello, are you alone?" he'd asked.

He had big hands, that was the first thing she saw, and powerful arms beneath his tight shirt. His dress was laid-back and informal, jeans, v-neck over a white t-shirt under a barn coat, Levi's, black leather boots, a tooled black leather belt. But the boots were immaculate, the metal inlay on his belt shined brightly silver, and his shirt was so obviously expensive it covered him with a sheen of elegance. He had an easy smile, and light brown eyes surrounded by laugh lines. His dark hair was longish, but well cut. He was tallish but not some freak of nature. It looked like he might have a nice ass. All in all, she thought, he looked well put together. Like he went to the gym, but didn't obsess over it.

"Yes, but I wouldn't mind some company." Just like that, she had said it. The perfect thing, in just the right tone, and he had sat down, and she had felt like standing outside of herself and shouting "YESSSSS!"

They had had a lovely time, with light conversation and just the right level of veiled sexual tension that she thought things-might-just-work-out. When she asked him what he did for a living, he had said he did something with money that gave her the impression that he managed to skim off a good portion for himself. He was polite, charming. She was flirtatious. After half an hour or so, they had exchanged phone numbers, and as she had watched him walk whistling away she observed that, yes, indeed, his ass filled out those Levi's very well, thank you very much.

They'd gone out a couple of times after that, he drinking beer and she sipping white wine, he'd introduced her to his dashing men friends and their pretty wives and girlfriends, she'd laughed at all his jokes, made no gaffes. It was clear from the look in his eyes and the courtly way he treated her that he thought she was – something, maybe something special. She thought he was just great. And he'd never done more than kiss her and give her a good, healthy squeeze at the end of the night. She'd hinted that she was ready for more, twisting a finger into her hair, holding his gaze just a little longer, lightly pressing her body into his at various times in the night, just to let him know, "Hey, we can go a little farther now... I won't mind." But, after the decent interval after the first few dates when she'd invited him in, he'd laughed telling her, "Not yet dear, we barely know each other." And then, each time, he'd said the most curious thing, "Be a good girl for me."

The last time, though, his goodnight kiss had been especially fervent, as if he'd been searching for something in her. She'd done her best to respond, and she'd ground her crotch into his for what seemed like forever, and she'd felt him respond (and boy, did he respond!!), but instead of coming in, he'd just smiled an especially wide grin, taken a deep breath, kissed the end of her nose, and told her he'd be in touch, but as always, to be a good girl until then. She'd walked inside her apartment, closed the door and leaned back and shook for a full five minutes.

Within ten minutes more, she had gotten herself under the cool covers of her bed. She wondered what he meant by being a good girl. She smiled, rubbing her tummy and thinking about his jawline, the shape of his ears, how she imagined his thighs were shaped beneath his pants. "Do you want me to be a good girl?" she whispered. Her other hand stroked a breast idly, then became more insistent as they sought her nipple. One finger circled the areola, gently at first and then stronger. The thumb joined the finger and lightly pinched her nipple. She sighed as she thought of him kissing it, then using his white teeth and biting, and she in turn pinched harder. "Show me how to be your good girl..."

As she imagined his big hands on her body, his mouth and his tongue abandoning her breast and suckling their way down her flat tummy, she stroked herself with her own small soft hands. She reached down between her legs and lightly brushed her bare pussy, feeling the heat that radiated from her sex. "I want to be your good girl, your best girl..."

Her pussy was soaking. At first, she stroked everything but her most secret center, saving this for later, first with one hand while she alternated between stroking her hips and her tummy and her breasts with the other, then she switched hands. In her mind it was his hands, his mouth that were caressing her. She allowed a finger to brush against the the slippery pink folds, then, finally, oh so lightly she touched her most intimate self, and she shivered. "Uuuuummmmmmmmmm" she groaned. Again and again, closer and closer to that one spot the finger delved, until she couldn't stand it anymore, she brought the other hand to bear on her cunny and put the other to her mouth, sucking in the musty finger and imagining it was he that was offering her the sharp taste of herself. "Is this what good girls do darling?" she husked...

Now she was close. She used both hands, one for stroking, with the other she penetrated her own pussy, slowly at first, then faster and harder. She crammed two fingers in. She felt her hips moving, the world was shifting and turning and she knew it was his thick cock in her pussy. "Fuck me Fuck me Fuck me Fuck me" she whispered to her phantom lover. She slammed away at her hole, finally stroking her clit, harder and harder and more insistent with herself, her hips bucking and her teeth bared and then the wave broke and she was aching and at the same time released and then another wave and damn another one again! And all she could think was that she wanted to be a good girl and feel him come and come and come inside of her, all over her, on her face and her breasts and her tummy and her ass and like his whore she wanted to bathe forever in endless coils of his nasty ropy smelly white cum. Content, she'd curled up between her sheets and slept.

AND THEN, SHE'D HEARD NOTHING for three weeks. Not a call, not a note, no email, nothing. Not a single word. At first, it hadn't bothered her. He needed some space, he was a guy, after all, and all guys have a tendency to flake out a little just when things could start getting serious, and it wasn't like she hadn't signaled that, if that was what he'd wanted, it'd be all right with her. But, as the day's passed, she kept getting a gnawing feeling that she'd done something wrong. Had she been too insistent? Had she said something, in a tipsy moment, that may have offended him or one of his friends? She'd racked her brains, searching for something that she could apologize for, found nothing. She'd not gotten actually drunk with him, not even close. She couldn't think of any conversation, except for sexy banter between just they two, that was in the slightest bit off-color, non-p.c, or even mildly offensive. She'd even managed to tone down the tendency to snort in the tiniest way when she laughed too hard... No, there was nothing, she'd behaved absolutely perfectly.

Then what was it? Slowly, it dawned on her. She'd masturbated! That must have been what he meant by being a "good girl." But how had he known – why, he must have stood outside, his ear to the door, and listened! Or outside, just under her apartment window on the landing. She knew that he would have heard, her slimy next door neighbor had even commented about the "animalistic noises" that had come from her side of the wall that night while she was in the throes of her passion. Drat, drat and double drat she thought, how could she have? "I've screwed it all up. Completely. Now he knows I'm just another slut."

Then, finally, last night, he'd called her and invited her out for a night on the town, a special night. Was she game? "Of course, I'd love it!" she'd crowed, in a tone meant to convey she'd been too busy this whole time to wonder why he'd not called. She never let on that she'd been crawling the walls wondering why he'd not called. Scared to death to call him more than once a week, she'd done so once the first Tuesday after their last date and once again the next Thursday, and then last week she hadn't called at all, hoping not to sound clingy or needy or pushy or any of the other fifty thousand things that apparently drove men crazy about women.

And, of course, she'd quit masturbating, something that she'd never held back from before. So now, now she sat on her leatherette couch and stared at the wall, sipped her wine, tapped her feet and just itched.