Outside the cafe, Elise's poise abandoned her. She was no further than around the corner when she was forced to stop and try to collect herself, to quell the shaking inside her. It was like her whole body was falling apart. Shaking from the mortifying embarrassment. From the quaking orgasm whose tendrils were still curling through her abdomen.
She put a hand out and leaned against the smooth steadiness of one of the plane trees lining the street.
Jesus Christ.
Her legs shook, standing there in her heels, and she felt emptied, like she'd just run for her life — shot up with adrenaline and drained of everything else. Her muscles were spasming — in her tummy, in her legs — and she still hadn't gotten her breath back. Her pussy was tingling, buzzing, still clenching at an imaginary cock, as if it knew its only job was to bring pleasure, to wrap itself around rock hard cock and squeeze the cum out of it. To pull the cum out just by being soft, and pretty and delicate.
It wouldn't stop. Her whole body felt like it was betraying her. She couldn't bring it under control, and as the shaking spread through her — into her arm trying to hold her upright, then her shoulders — she really thought she was losing it.
And just like that, standing there in the street, relying on a tree for support, her eyes filled with tears. She couldn't help it. It was like the orgasm had drawn every last drop of life force from her, left her empty and wrung out, and flung her into the street. She had nothing left — and the day hadn't even started.
She looked around, self-conscious, and tried to get her legs to co-operate. She had so much to do today —
somehow she had to get a job!
— but all she wanted was to go to bed. All her efforts to look good, to prepare herself mentally as much as physically to get herself out of this jam, and she'd dashed them all — thinking about Leo. Spreading her legs and jamming her fingers into her pussy in public like that was even mildly normal.
What the fuck was wrong with her?
What was she doing here, struggling to stand — leaning against a tree, for fuck's sake. Crying from what, a too-intense orgasm?
Jesus Christ, who was she?
But even as she berated herself —
you pathetic slut, you can't even handle your own orgasms
— she realized her tears might not simply be born of the intensity of the orgasm, but the power of the memory. The memories that never seemed to leave her alone. The constant reminder of how good it had been, how much she had loved him — how much she'd been sure he loved her — and the reinforcement over and over that he really had gone. He'd left her. He was fucking someone else. He was lost in someone else. The way she was still, hopelessly, lost in him. A sob hiccuped its way out of her and she forced down hard to stop it escalating.
She wouldn't make a spectacle of herself in the street!
And the thought of that brought a sardonic smile to her face — after the ridiculous spectacle she'd just made of herself in the cafe.
The moment of levity helped, and Elise soon found herself steeling herself — such that her legs stopped shaking, and she no longer needed the tree for support. And soon, with her eyes mostly dry, and reason returning to her legs, to her tummy — she could take in her surroundings anew. A job. Yes.
It hadn't occurred to her when she left the house —
who the fuck knew where she'd thought she was going to look
— but now she thought of the art school,
what was it called?
It was only a few blocks away. The noticeboard there sometimes had ads for models, for a senior project or a life drawing class. There might be something...
But even as she thought it, she felt her sopping wet panties clinging to her still drenched pussy lips, and she knew she couldn't go anywhere like this. Even if they couldn't tell, she wouldn't be able to think straight — to put her mind to anything beyond the way the material sawed back and forth against her sensitive lips, how it stuck and unstuck to her, flicking her clit with every step she made. The constant reminder of what a slut she was. How much she was ruled by her needy pussy — the thought of giving it to a big fat cock. Making it go rock fucking hard. Caressing it, squeezing and stroking it, till it just had to fire rockets of cum all over her.
Holy shit.
She was actually crazy. There was actually something wrong with her. Just thinking about how she had to change her slutty little panties because they were too wet to function in had set her mind off again. More thoughts of cocks and cuming, and the delicious validation that only came when she forced a man to lose control, when her tight pussy, and her firm tits and her tight ass made him groan with desire, and the way she pushed back hungrily onto his iron rod made it spasm with need...
Jesus!
She had to cut it out. Already she could feel herself adding to the moisture coating the inside of her far-too-sheer panties. It just had to be leaking through to the outside. People would practically be able to smell her! She needed to change them —
just find a regular pair, you silly little bitch!
What had she been thinking? Choosing the sexiest pair she owned? Sending that message to her already over-eager snatch? Of course she'd gotten excited.
She had to quieten it down. She had to shut it off, for fuck's sake. Some plain white cotton briefs was the answer. Practicality. Functionality. Comfort. But just as she turned for home, a feeling of dread shot through her — she didn't want to go back there. That's where the ghost of Leo was the strongest. Where the feeling of his loss — the memory of him actually walking out the door, the things he'd said — was hardest to avoid. And she just couldn't take any more. Not today.
Did she really have to go home? Just to change her panties?
For a moment she thought about just taking them off. Just finding a bathroom somewhere and pulling the sodden material down her legs and off, leaving her pussy to feel the touch of the open air. To dry out naturally. No-one needed to know...
But she'd know. That was the problem. She'd know she was walking round in a short little flippy dress with nothing on underneath, her perfectly waxed pussy exposed to anyone who might be given an accidental glimpse — the merest breath of wind as she walked... if she sat the wrong way... A look right up her deliciously smooth thighs, to her pink little folds that no-one was meant to see...
But now of course, all she could think about was having someone see. Having someone know... Having someone push her up against a wall, and just take her defenseless little pussy. Assuming that because she hadn't bothered to cover it, to protect it, to defend it, she had relinquished her right to refuse them. That she was asking for it.
The thought made her pussy clench, and it was like she could feel the pussy juice sliding through her, making its way hurriedly to her succulent lips, to seep into the already saturated material of her g-string.
Fucking hell — this had to stop.
If she could just get into some normal underwear — if she could just put something on her pussy that didn't scream sex, didn't constantly remind her how horny she was, how filthy she was, how she looked like she was too good for almost anyone and yet she needed it so fucking badly she'd let almost anyone fuck her if they just took control. If they didn't ask. If they were just man enough to force her to be the good little girl who just takes it. Who just has to spread her legs —
wider, little one
— and remember to point her toes as she's impaled on his shaft.
God dammit!
That was enough. Her legs were shuddering again now, and she forced herself to start walking — to where, she had no idea — just to get her jittery legs in motion again, and to wrench her mind from her pussy, from sex, from cock, from