Your hand stays frozen above your sex, the fingers starting to tremble with effort.
"Blue Eel," you gasp, breaking the spell, and instead of bringing yourself to that orgasmic high you've been missing for weeks now your hand goes to work stripping off your bland stay-at-home clothes.
"Dress slutty," you murmer, echoing the words of that bastard from across the hall. Was that a promise he'd made, would he show up to give you what he'd so rudely taken and given to his girlfriend?
As if guided by another your hands sift through your closet, evaluating your selection. The boring things, so many of them from recent months, glide past your fingers quickly before you delve into your single-girl clothes, and leftovers from high school that you still fit into with ease.
Miniskirts, minidresses, shorts, a schoolgirl skirt from that catholic school. Your fingers pause as you consider. |