Dirty Panties
Bruce had sent the money to the account listed on the site. He was one of many that day, so he was surprised when he received it within the week. And so thrilled too.
He opened the package and even before holding it to his nose, he smelled the urine. And his arousal was instant. It was real, human urine!
He took the panties into his room and put the video on of the dominant lady peeing in the shower, on many panties.
And Bruce started rubbing his cock. He pressed rewind and watched the show over and over. Until he came. All over the panties.
All he could do was smile.
And hope that the next pair of panties arrived before he smelled more of his jizz than her urine. He hated that he could only order one pair at a time.
Her Hands
Once a week, he had a chance to do the one thing that excited him beyond measure. He adored her hands.
First he washed her hands with a soft cloth and towel. With unscented glycerine soap so it didn’t interfere with the rest. Then he washed them with his tongue. His next step was to lotion her hands with an unscented lotion. Then he cleaned off the old nail polish from the week before and applied a clear coat, then a colour coat, then a sparkle coat.
When the colour was applied just so, he put a dab of glue on them and placed a small jewel pattern.
When he was sure he had it done to his standards, he asked her if she was pleased. And usually she was. It was a bad day if he had to do anything over.
When they were both sure it was well done, he asked permission to go relieve himself. Working with her hands always made him hard.
It was like he had a reel in his head. He replayed every step he had just taken slowly, till he came. When he was done, he cleaned and sanitized his hands.
Then he went back to her and kissed her hands.
He was thrilled she allowed such privileges. It was his fave thing to do and the only way he was able to come.
I Collect Your Right Earrings
I have a long sales route that makes travelling far and fast requisites of my life. I spend time in hotels and motels, in diners and gas stations. I spend time in lazy places, when you all are at work.
I see people, but they’re noone you’d know. Not in your condo or townhouse, or even your apt complex. People who have never heard of Michelin ratings or even the star system of food or bed lodgings. They’ve never heard of the great chefs, unless they watch the food channel or gusto on TV. Let alone tasted their food. Though they might have walked by the cookbook aisle in the library, I suppose. But they wouldn’t likely know the name’s significance.
I see crowds of people who society will never miss. The great unwashed, the ones who think perfume takes the place of a shower. They might see their family a couple times a year, if at all. So nobody really misses them. Or so you’d think.
These are the people that predators prey on. Because they think they can get away with it. If predators exist, that is. I guess I have to leave that question up to you. Do they?
So I’m out on the road, seeing all these faces bleeding into each other and getting mad at the nuisances of having them around. Figuring that picking them off is my right. And choosing those who I see my criminal in and getting close enough to touch them.
And I make a symbolic gesture…
As I walk by them I grab their earring and yank. I’m gone before they can give chase, because it’s so unexpected. They stand there in shock.
In the time a gun could go off in a crowd or someone could have a knife flash end their life. I prove that they are not only dispensible, they are also vulnerable to attack.
That’s how I get away with it. And nobody but that one individual it just happened to cares. Noone correlates the data. Or spots the trends. They never mention me on police reports or on the news. Occasionally you might see a facebook post about that odd thing that happened to them on the way home from or to work or school. But nobody cares to even make it an urban legend.
I just wound their ego a little and they might have a nightmare or two till they get over the shock. Then I’m back in the shadows again. It was just a bauble, but it meant something to them. “Why??” they ask.
Why? I like creating that frision of fear, without making someone die of it. I’m a prankster, not a murderer or rapist. All I am is a nuisance. A pest.
Imagine for that second when someone bumps into you, and takes your fave earring from your ear. Before you can catch them, they’re gone. how would that make you feel?
Well it makes me cum whenever i end my day.
long tresses
[hair][https://youtu.be/nBIfWt3uiZ8]
I was made to be a hairdresser. From when I first was given a brush and a dollie, i was practicing. And when I got my first play scissors, I started to drive my mother nuts. I practiced on dolls and my sisters. Mom had to make a deal with me about how much hair I was allowed to cut off. I’m sure you know the tale of a kid who cut hair just before a family portrait, a big holiday do or a family wedding. That was me!
When I was old enough to date, I spent more time petting their hair than their boobs or butt. I wanted to braid and plait hair more than have sex.
As soon as I could, I started to dye my own hair and my friends as well. I was sent home more than once for dyeing hair in brilliant hues that their mom or dad shrieked over. Then I got smart and started asking their grandmas, rather than my friends. They were tired of the powder baby colours that their hairdressers insisted on giving them. And really tired of looking like primped poodles all the time. I gave them an option and their grown kids could hardly say no. Or get mad.
I even started to get some pocket money for my efforts. The local senior ladies were thrilled, but the hairdressers? Not so much. There wasn’t much they could do though. Most of the ladies were now looking more like fall leaves and rock or punk stars than baby colours. And they were thrilled!
My dad started looking at me with suspicious eyes and asking mom if I was ok. She wasn’t sure. So we had a chat. About sex and who I was attracted to. I mean girls were pretty and all. But I wasn’t much into them. Guys were cute but i was even less into them. She told dad he had a child who was a slow grower, but not to worry. So he trusted her, but every now and then I still got a suspicious look.
I started dating, just to appease him.
I had a chance in HS to train in a salon and jumped all over it. I learned all the new styles and practiced every cut, till finally I was able to do the customers. I was chuffed! And so were they.
My dates started looking like the belles of the ball at HS. And I was popular. So dad was finally put to rest.
He had no clue though that I was dating the girls who’d never put out, just so I could play with their hair. And they were thrilled that they didn’t have to fight me off.
The thing that nobody knew was that I had a pillow stuffed with hair ends. And every nght, I’d open it and rub it all over myself until I was ready to cum. But I stopped just in time so I didn’t soil the hair. Or the pillow. Every now and then i had to pretend to change my pillow. I just sewed a new slip over the old one to reassure my mom.
I was obsessed with hair. Touching it, cutting it, styling it… hair. I wanted to be covered in hair.
Bessie the Car
Ryan was that guy… I’m sure you know someone who loves their car. They name it, they detail it, they make sure they’re so careful with it. Nobody eats in it, or does anything to mess it up. There are some people who just aren’t allowed in it. They make sure the rain and snow never get on it, they park it in storage in bad weather and drive their runabout. Their kids have never been in it, right? You’d think they would have a GF or wife who had sex in the back seat, but OOOH NOOOOO!! That’d make it dirty. They never parked it in a busy lot or let the valet park it. NOBODY ever drove that car, but them.
Ryan went further though. He slept in the garage with Bessie. He didn’t want her to get lonely, or stolen. He often said that she’d only ever be taken from him when he was dead.
He didn’t write his will for his wife or kids. Or get insurance to see to their needs if something happened to him. But he got it in case something happened to him, so Bessie would be provided for. And he left it to a friend who had always loved Bessie. Not his wife. Not his brother. They always said they’d sell Bessie and get something they wanted to drive. And his wife always seemed jealous of Bessie. She said he should have married the car! He agreed, which didn’t help his relationship with his wife any.
Ryan always thought of Bessie first. While his wife was in labour with their first child, he was driving around, trying to find a safe place to put Bessie and almost missed the birth. His wife almost divorced him. She laid down some rules at that point. He had to agree or she was leaving and taking the baby. So he agreed, as long as she was around. But he circumvented them whenever possible.
What his wife didn’t know was how often he broke the rules. And what she didn’t know was how often he pictured Bessie when he was having sex with her. He imagined stroking Bessie and stroked his wife. He almost called out Bessie one night when he came. He thought of Bessie and got hard. He masturbated in the shower, imagining touching Bessie. He wanted Bessie.
I think his wife might have gone thru with the divorce had she known that. Don’t you?
mspeachierocks 
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