Hitomi (18+)

The last patient left an hour ago. I locked the front door and flipped the sign to ‘Closed.’ But I didn’t leave. I can’t. My whole body is buzzing. Hot. Sweaty. My pussy is so fucking hard, just throbbing against the fabric of this stupid white jumper. I swear you can see everything through it. I didn’t wear any panties today. I knew I wouldn’t make it home.

It’s Dr. Brooks. God, she drives me crazy.

I’m at my reception desk, standing now, unzipping my jumper.

My legs are spread. The office is so quiet, just the hum of the fridge in the break room. my ass touches the edge of the desk as I through my head back. I think about her so much. That bitchy look she gives me when I hand her a file. Like she’s annoyed, but her eyes drop to my cleavage for just a second. And her tits. Fuck. They’re huge. Perfect. And her nipples are always poking through her scrubs. I can see the outline of them, hard and demanding. It makes me go crazy.

I slide my hand slides over the crotch of my jumper. The fabric is thin, it rips. My skin is hot. My fingers brush over my plumped-up wet pussy lips. They’re so swollen and sensitive. I moan, the sound too loud in the empty office. I don’t care.

I think about her walking by. Her scrubs are so tight. Her cleavage is popping. I imagine her stopping at my desk. Leaning over. Her tits would be right in my face. I can almost smell her perfume. Something expensive and sharp. Like her.

My finger finds my clit again. Oh god. It’s huge and throbbing. I plumped that too. Best money I ever spent. I rub slow circles around it, not on it yet. Just teasing. My hips buck up into my own hand. I’m so fucking horny.

I close my eyes. I’m not in the office anymore. I’m in one of the treatment rooms. The one with the big leather bed. Dr. Brooks is there. She’s not wearing her white coat. Just a tight black latex one-piece. She’s looking down at me with that same bored, bitchy expression.

“You’re a mess,” she’d say. Her voice is flat. Cold.

“I know,” I’d whine. “I can’t help it. You make me like this.”

She’d shake her head. But then she’d unzip her top. Just a little. Just enough to show more of that incredible cleavage. My mouth waters. My fingers on my clit speed up. The pressure builds.

In my head, she steps closer. “Show me,” she commands.

I’d pull my jumper down, my massive fake tits bouncing out. I’d spread my legs wider. My pussy is dripping. I’d put my fingers inside myself, then pull them out, shiny and wet. I’d hold them up to her.

“See?” I’d say. “It’s all for you.”

Back in the real office, two of my own fingers plunge inside my pussy. It’s so wet. The sound is obscene. Slick and messy.I fuck myself with them, hard and fast. My other hand is pinching and twisting my nipple through the thin fabric of my jumper. I can see the dark pink of my swollen areola through the white material. God, I’m such a slut.

In the fantasy, Dr. Brooks would take my wet fingers and put them in her mouth. She’d suck them clean, her eyes locked on mine. Then she’d push me back on the bed. She wouldn’t kiss me. She’s too mean for that. She’d just grab my tits, squeezing them hard. Her thumbs would rub over my nipples until I cried out.

“Quiet,” she’d hiss. But then she’d lower her head. And she’d bite my nipple. Enough to make me scream.

I’m screaming now. A choked, gasping sound. My back arches off the chair. My fingers are a blur inside me, crooking up to hit that spot. My clit is a burning, electric knot under my thumb. I’m so close. So close.

I imagine her moving down my body. Her perfect face between my thighs. She’d look up at me, her expression still annoyed. “You’d better squirt for me,” she’d say. Like it’s an order. Like I’m inconveniencing her.

That’s all it takes.

Oh fuck. My whole body seizes. A wave of crazy heat crashes through me. My pussy clenches around my fingers, pulsing, gripping. And then it happens. A hot gush sprays out of me. I squirt and squirt, my hips jerking uncontrollably. It feels like my soul is shooting out of my cunt. I see stars behind my eyelids. I gasp for air, my mouth hanging open.

It goes on forever. When it finally stops, I’m a trembling mess. Sprawled in the chair. My jumper is soaked. The chair is wet. I slowly pull my fingers out of my slick, used-up pussy. I’m breathing so hard.

The heat is a blanket I can’t kick off. It’s this heavy, wet thing clinging to my skin, just like my stupid panties. And it’s all her fault.

From my window, the view is a nightmare. A perfect, plastic, pornstar nightmare. Chloe. My “stepmom”. God, even thinking it makes my stomach twist. She’s laid out on a deck chair by our pool, a shiny, oily goddamn centerfold. That tiny, tiny waist I could probably circle with my hands. Those huge, ridiculous fake tits that don’t even move when she shifts. And that ass. That’s a whole fucking surgical masterpiece, round and high and unreal.

She’s in a white string bikini, and it’s basically just dental floss and misplaced confidence. I watch her stretch, a lazy, performative arch of her back, and a low groan escapes my lips before I can stop it. My hand is already down my shorts, my fingers finding the one part of me I truly hate. The freak show.

It’s not normal. I’m not normal. While she’s all smooth curves and softness, I’ve got this… thing. A thick, hard, throbbing clit. A solid three inches of angry, sensitive flesh that’s already poking out of my pink cotton panties right now. It’s like a little dick, and it’s mine, and it’s rock hard because of her.

She gets up, swaying that perfect BBL over to the outdoor bar my dad built. His bar. She pours herself a clear drink, adding a lime like she’s in a fucking commercial. Prancing around like she owns this house, like she owns him.

Fuck, I hate her. I hate her for being here. Hate her for stealing my dad’s attention, for making him look at her with that dumb, lovesick grin. But I hate her most for this. For making my panties soak through with a wetness that has nothing to do with the heat. For making this stupid dick-between-my-legs twitch and ache.

I’m just me. Just turned eighteen. Skinny. Barely any tits to speak of. And she’s… that. A walking fantasy. A cam girl slut who doesn’t even need a camera to be obscene.

She’s back on the lounger now, and I know this part. This is the main event. She thinks no one is watching. But I am. I always am.

She slides a hands slowly over her stomach, her fingers eventually slipping under the tiny triangle of fabric between her legs. Her head lolls back, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as her hips give a little circular grind against her own hand. I can hear her, even through the glass. A low, breathy moan that goes straight to my core.

God, she’s so loud.

My own fingers are moving on autopilot, rubbing rough, desperate circles around the base of my swollen clit. I’m not gentle. I’m pissed. This is a punishment. A rebellion against my own body’s betrayal.

She shifts, hooking her thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottom and peeling them down her thighs. She kicks them off onto the deck. There. Completely exposed. Her pussy is as perfect as the rest of her, puffy and waxed bare, glistening under the sun.

She spreads her legs wide, giving me a full, obscene view, and starts to touch herself for real. Two fingers sliding through her slick folds, her middle finger finding her clit and rubbing it in tight, practiced circles. Her other hand pulls her bikini top to let her tits out, pinching and pulling at her own puffy nipples, making her back arch off the chair.

My breathing is ragged. My own fingers are slick now, slipping and sliding over my own enormity. I wrap my whole hand around it, giving it a rough, furious stroke, imagining it’s something else. Imagining it’s her hand.

Her moans get louder, turning into high-pitched little screams. Her legs are trembling. I can see her whole body tensing, the muscles in her stomach clenching. She’s close. She’s always such a goddamn show-off.

I mimic her, my thumb pressing hard on the very tip of my clit, a dizzying bolt of pleasure-pain shooting through me. I’m grinding my hips into my own hand, my shorts tangled around my ankles. I’m a mess. A jealous, horny, pathetic mess watching a bigger mess.

She lets out a sharp, almost painful cry and her body convulses. A jet of clear fluid sprays from her, catching the sunlight for a second before splattering on the hot concrete. She squirts. Of course she fucking squirts. She collapses back onto the lounger, chest heaving, a satisfied smirk on her glossed lips.

The sight of it, the sheer audacity of her pleasure, shoves me over the edge I’ve been teetering on. My orgasm rips through me, brutal and unforgiving. My back slams against the windowsill as my hips buck wildly into my clenched fist. A choked, guttural sound is torn from my throat—nothing like her performative screams. This is raw and real and angry.

Wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure courses through me, centering on that throbbing, over-sensitive nerve between my legs. My vision spots. I bite my lip to keep from screaming his name—her husband’s name—which is fucking insane. The pulsing seems to go on forever, my whole body shaking with the force of it.

When it finally subsides, I’m slumped against the wall, breathless and sticky. Spent. Ashamed.

I look back out the window. She’s still lying there, one hand draped over her eyes, the other resting between her thighs. She looks peaceful. Satisfied. She has no idea.

A new, terrifying thought cuts through the post-orgasm haze. A thought that’s been whispering at the edges of my mind for weeks.

What if she does know?

What if all of this—the skimpy bikinis, the poolside performances, the loud, showy masturbation—isn’t just for her? What if it’s… for me?

The idea is so audacious it makes my heart hammer against my ribs. My still-sensitive clit gives a traitorous throb.

But there’s no way. She would never even think of it. She’s so self-centered, so narcissistic. She sometimes whispers her own name during orgasm if not my dad’s. Her name, like she’s the only one in the room, in the world. She doesn’t even know I exist. Which is better that way. I can just keep watching her. Like now, she’s moving to those massive tits, and those huge protruding nipples are like erect penises, Jesus, she’s lewd. But she sucks on one now, and that tells me she’s not done. She’ll tease and suck herself again and again, and I’m just there to watch it all.

Her lips close around one giant nipple, sucking hard enough to make her own back arch off the lounger. Her free hand cups the other breast, squeezing and kneading it like she’s trying to milk herself. A low, throaty moan escapes her, and I feel my clit twitch again, still sensitive from my last release. She’s relentless, her tongue flicking and teasing at the swollen bud, her fingers pinching and pulling at the other. It’s obscene. It’s grotesque. It’s fucking mesmerizing.

I press a hand to the glass, the cool surface doing nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. My panties are still tangled around my ankles, my thighs damp with sweat and something else. I can’t look away. Not when she switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in her own touch.

I floated on my back for a bit, feeling the weird fabric of my bikini top against my boobs. It was this lime green string bikini thing, but the triangles over my huge tits had these perfect little cut-outs, just circles for my nipples to poke through. The Hawthorns were fucking obsessed with my nipples. Said they were “sacred vessels” or some shit. Needed “unobstructed airflow” to preserve their perfect shape for the baby. Bullshit. They just liked looking at them. I mean, fuck, they’re just nipples. But the money was insane as their surrogate, so I got used to wearing these stupid fucking tops with holes in them. Every day. Even by the pool.

Anyway. I’d just fed the baby, my tits were emptied out, and the Hawthorns were gone for the day. The nanny was inside. I was alone. Totally alone. I should have been relaxed. But something was off. The water lapping against my skin, the way my bikini bottom rode up… my nipples were straining through those holes, like little penises fucking the fabric. They were getting so fucking sensitive, the kind of sensitive that goes straight to your cunt.

I swam to the side of the pool, my arms feeling heavy. I needed a minute. I grabbed the rough concrete edge, hoisting myself up a little to just hang there, my tits half in the water. Then, my left nipple grazed the side.

Fuck.

A sharp, electric jolt shot from my nipple right down to my pussy. It was pure, hot fucking pleasure. And a thin, white stream of milk leaked out, mixing with the chlorinated water in a little cloudy swirl. My heart hammered. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like that.

I did it again. On purpose. I pressed my nipple against the rough edge, dragging it slowly. Oh, fuck. More milk came out, this time in a quicker dribble. The sensation was insane. It was like my nipple was directly wired to my clit. Every little scrape sent a pulse of heat right to my swollen pussy lips. I could feel myself getting hornier and hornier.

God, I need to touch myself.

I looked around. No one. Just the big, empty house. The silent garden. Fuck it.

I let go of the side with one hand and brought it down between my legs, under the water. My fingers slid right under the floss fabric of my bikini bottom. My pussy was so fucking wet. Drenched. My fingers slid through my slick folds, finding my clit already hard and puffy. I pressed a finger against it and my whole body jerked. Holy shit. I started rubbing, slow circles, my head falling back against the pool edge.

My other hand went to my tit. I cupped my breast, feeling the massive heavy weight of it, and brought my thumb to my nipple. It was tight and dark and erect. I pinched it. Milk sprayed out, a little arc hitting the water. The pleasure was so intense it made my vision blur. I fucked my thumb against my nipple, rubbing the hard little bud, and more milk dribbled out, soaking the front of my bikini top, making the fabric stick to my skin.

I was fucking myself with two fingers now, pushing them into my cunt. It felt so good, the tight stretch, the hot wetness. I could feel my pussy gripping them, wanting more. I curled my fingers, searching for that spongy spot inside. There. I pressed against it and my legs trembled. My breathing got all fucked up, coming in short, sharp gasps. I rubbed my clit faster, my hips bucking against my own hand. My other nipple was leaking too, dripping milk more milk in the water.

I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum right here.

I was losing it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I pushed three fingers into my cunt now, stretching myself wide, fucking myself hard and fast. The water sloshed around me. My thumb was a blur on my clit. I pinched my nipple so hard it almost hurt, and a thick gush of milk poured out.

That was it. The pressure in my belly snapped.

My back arched, my mouth open in a silent scream. My cunt clenched around my fingers, pulsing, throbbing. And then it happened—a hot gush of fluid erupted from me, seeping out into the pool water. It wasn’t a little cum. It was a fucking thick cream fluid mixing with the chlorinated blue, making a faint cloud around my hips. I kept squirting, my body shaking, wave after wave of it leaving me, my pussy spasming uncontrollably. It felt like I was pissing pleasure, just emptying everything out. It went on and on, until I was weak, slumped against the side, breathing like I’d run a mile.

The water around my lower half looked different. Murkier. I was a mess. I pulled my trembling fingers out of my cunt, staring at them under the water. They were pruny. I just floated there, feeling spent and stupid and incredible.

The old dirty leotard was a fucking prison. The skin-toned fabric, stretched thin and used over my tits, was the worst part. It scraped against my nipples with every little shift. I’d tried to do a few pliés, just for the hell of it, to see if my body remembered anything. But all it remembered was being a fucking milk factory now.

My tits were huge. Heavy. Full to bursting. The cheap nylon of the leotard dug into the swollen, sensitive skin around my areolas, and the friction was a weird kind of pain, sharp and hot. It wasn’t just chafing. It was a direct line straight from my nipples down to my cunt.

I stopped pretending to dance. I just stood there in the middle of the living room, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds. One hand came up, cupping the aching weight of my left huge breast through the fabric. I squeezed. The pressure was immediate, a deep, needy throb. A thin, hot dampness spread where my nipple was trapped. Leaking. Already.

“Fuuuck,” I breathed to the empty room. My voice sounded rough.

I brought both hands to my breasts now. My palms were warm. I hefted their weight, feeling the dense, liquid fullness through the fabric. My thumbs found my nipples. I rolled them, not gently. A sharp jolt went through me, and my hips jerked forward, empty. More milk welled up, pearling at the tips. I pinched one nipple between my thumb and forefinger, a tight, mean pressure.

“Ahhn.” The high pitched girlish sound punched out of me. My knees went weak. I kept pinching my nipples. My breathing got faster. 

The sensation in my tits was building, a pressure that had nothing to do with my hand. It was deep inside the glands, a mounting, urgent fullness. 

I switched my attention to my other tit, squeezing the whole heavy mound, my fingers digging into the soft flesh. The milk was close to the surface. I could feel it. My pussy was clenching around nothing.

Then it happened. The pressure in my breasts crested and explosed. My back arched violently as I thrusted the air like a needy bitch. Both my tits seemed to jump, and twin streams of milk shot out from my nipples. Not a trickle. Thick, white jets. They arced through the air, spattering onto the floor a few feet away with a soft, wet sound.

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