I bet you're at the type that edges yourself throughout the day, aren't you?
Not right now. But today. That snooze button was a lie -- nine minutes with your hand in your panties and one rule: not before coffee. You stopped yourself. Made the coffee. Felt like you got away with something.
You have been doing this for years. You don't even need much. Two fingers through your leggings. A seam pressed exactly right. Thighs crossed, body still, face doing nothing, while your clit throbs against the fabric and everyone around you in this carpool line, this office, this completely normal Friday has absolutely no idea.
You are quietly insatiable and you have made an art of it.
The text came at 7:40 and that started the whole day. The Kindle at lunch -- that page, the one you keep coming back to. Four sentences in and your ankles were crossed under the desk, two fingers resting in your lap, clenching and releasing slowly around nothing. Face completely normal. The colleague sitting across from you refilling his coffee, making small talk, completely unaware that the woman nodding politely back at him has been edging herself since breakfast. That dad at drop-off who smiled and waved. If they knew. If they had any idea the kind of ravenous, specific, fully operational hunger sitting right across from them.
Here's the part nobody says out loud. A woman this turned on, this long, gives something off. A warmth. Something that made people glance at you today and not know why.
That was you. Every room. All day.
The Tumblr scroll at three, laptop tilted just enough. Clench. Hold. Release.
Throbbing and stopping and clenching. Running a tab since 7:40.
It's Friday night. Door locked.
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