Louise was twenty-two and the daughter of one of my wife’s friends. She was slim and stood five feet six tall. Her long thin ginger hair flowed freely and matched her eyebrows. Her green eyes set in a pale attractive face with a scattering of freckles suited her small facial features well and she looked pure and innocent.She froze on seeing me and I couldn’t believe my eyes and stood gaping at her. She was wearing a grey tee-shirt and lime green combat trousers. When I say wearing her trousers that wasn’t exactly true. They were down around her ankles. A quick scan around the small room told me she must have been trying on those new sexy skirts lying on top of the Ann Summers bag. She had a hand inside a smaller Ann Summers bag holding a long rectangular box and her fingers on her other hand holding a partly withdrawn item that I knew was a dildo.Her face went deep red and my eyes couldn’t resist looking at her womanhood. Her bulky mass under her pale blue knickers became of interest. They don’t know anything. Why has this cunt pushed in, in front of me? No fucking manners. Why can’t she just calm down for five fucking minutes? Dick. Keep breathing. Show him. Show them. Why are the decisions always on me? Why do they all fuck with me? They can’t fuck with me. Any of them.Panting, not at what I'm doing, yet, but at the shadows and echos of the outside world and your 'real life', in your head. The moronic letch who makes obvious comments about your private life. The treacherous 'married' who, adored by most, sidles up to you and would 'accidentally' brush his grey-slacked penis against your arse in the coffee queue, if only his gut didn't obscure it. The tedious spinsters who whisper behind their own cunt-stained fingers at the only girl in the office who's 'getting any'. If only they knew half the truth. How this noise and chaos gets dealt with. How your muscles squeeze around my fingers when my palm delivers the searing, stinging relief you need, almost as.
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