Sitting on the couch, I played with my pussy until my fingers went numb.
My leggings were pulled down to my ankles, the TV was on the home and garden channel and I got off three times, orgasming through ragged breaths. Several times I took a break and changed channels, then lazily started rubbing my clit again. When I got thirsty, I hobbled over to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, never bothering to pull my leggings up. It got dark outside and I forgot to turn on my porch lights. Hobbling again to the front door, I flipped the switch and went back to masturbating.
My Hydrangeas kept dying.
Try to picture little cute me earlier in my front yard, wearing my pink crocks and flowery leggings. Dirty blonde hair tied up under a hat, trowel in hand, pouting over shrubs. Lips puckered seductively, bent over kneeling in the dirt, harsh sunlight revealing that these leggings were recalled for being too thin. And of course, all the men in the neighborhood stared at my 30-year old ass. Pigs. It was my afternoon hobby to entertain them, so of course I didn't wear underwear.
After weeks of trying to keep the horrible things alive, the hydrangeas just kept wilting. Just to spite me. Holes formed in the leaves despite all my care and effort. The homely woman next door, Mrs. Weaver, kept staring at them in disapproval. She was out of shape and in her fifties, and just had that look of a nagging busybody.
But I didn't really care about the Hydrangeas. They bored me to tears. It's just that I didn't want to fail at home, because I was failing at work. And those bastard plants were making me very moody and bored.
So naturally I went inside and played with my pussy until bed time.
...
Now picture me at work in my business casual pants and jacket, taking a boring training course, reminiscing about being bored at home. All the men staring at me. Pigs. My thigh gap caught their eyes when I stood up, my crotch line when I spread my legs, my nice supple tits apparently substituted for my eyes. Sure, I may have advertised my inner slut a little with an undersized shirt, but it's still rude to stare.
The balding instructor kept droning on, "Effective communication of contract information is very important information ..." He was an idiot. He kept going on and I almost fell asleep.
What I really wanted to do was to yell out, "Hey moron, everything's information, stop using that word!"
More specifically, I wanted him to slowly die, just like my Hydrangeas. Him on stage, burn holes randomly forming in his appendages while he droned on, deluded in thinking he had any part of my attention.
I was so fucking bored there. That's how I was failing at work, stuck in contracting training for the next four months against my will. You know, the entire gardening season. That's also how I ended up going to the bathroom frequently and masturbating at work too. After the first week, I didn't even bother washing my hands, hoping men could smell my pussy on it. I didn't want to be there, so I invented a sport trying to get off in the bathroom as many times as I could every day.
Some women need oxygen to get off, some are normal, and some have it the opposite way. I was one of those who needed to hold her breath to orgasm. I had to be careful in the bathroom not to make too much noise because gasping for air sounded embarrassingly exactly like what it was. But after the first month, I didn't even try to hide what I was doing when other women walked in.
...
Work was slightly more boring than home, and home was definitely less boring than my daily commute. Taking the train to the city frustrated me more than anything else. At first it was a great convenience. Drive to the train station, hop on the train, read a book, walk to work and never have to worry about being stuck in traffic, or needing to find parking in the busy city.
But now the train was a trap. Within weeks I experienced how confining it was. My life was literally being driven by trains, on their own schedule and perversely they never ran on time. Something always happened. If they were timely, traffic clogged up on the way to the station and you'd miss your train anyway. If there were available seats, someone nasty was sitting next to the open one. Either they were nasty looking, or looking at you nastily, undressing you with their pervert eyes. Pigs!
And even if everything was going great that day, something would come at you sideways to remind you of trains, like dealing with the moron from HR who kept fucking up monthly ticket orders.
...
After work, I'd slip into comfortable leggings and try to achieve Zen through gardening. That was difficult on the account of my dying plants so again I tried to show some booty to the neighborhood men for sport. Today, Mrs. Weaver was out with her husband, staring disapprovingly at my wilting garden. She was pointing at the Hydrangeas and telling him all the things I was doing wrong, and he couldn't even stare at my ass too intently because he was building their planter box.
Fuck her. If I felt like injecting salt into their stems with my insulin syringes, that was my business. So I crouched down and showed them both my young shapely ass while I worked the soil. When I nearly finished weeding, I glanced back and saw the husband staring at me after all. Somehow I felt even more mischievous than usual, so I locked eyes with him and smiled. She was raking leaves nearby, looking away. Naturally, I got on my knees and gave him a more gratuitous show with my legs crossed, hoping she'd catch her husband staring at my heart-shaped ass.
I was doing it just to piss her off because she gave me such a bad vibe. My ass was swinging in circles left to right as I pulled weeds, going up and down at times, almost twerking in slow motion. Uncrossing my legs for comfort, I busied myself with actual weeding for a few minutes. Few times I turned back fast and caught him staring, but she was still busy with raking. The last time I caught him, I kept looking and stared him down while smiling. Within a few seconds he turned red and looked away fast.
That night in bed I played with my pussy thinking about her husband staring at my ass while she obliviously criticized my gardening, crooning at me while my fingers circled my clit. Fuck her. They were both out of shape, around the same old age, and I had a hot young body. I hoped she was jealous of me.
...
Work was getting more and more boring by the week. After the second month, it got warm and I started wearing skirts to work. It helped they made for easier access but it took more and more effort for me to get off. It got to a point where I was I spending so much time masturbating in the bathroom that the instructor publicly inquired if I was okay. I mouthed off to him in front of everyone, and he never brought it up again. The skirts kept getting shorter.
Every other week I'd need extra help to get pushed off the edge, so I'd slip out of my shoes and pull my pantyhose off. Just to break the monotony, I was fantasizing about angering the instructor so hard to where he snapped and choked me, conflicted in trying to snuff the life out of me and unintentionally pressing his angry surprise hardon against my crotch. Pig! I tied the pantyhose around my neck and, tugging on them, played with my pussy so hard I tore them up.
