[Leopard]

It's been a long day. But now you're home, and all you can really think about is baring your cunt to the winter air - no matter how cold it is - and ramming the first thing you can grab straight up it. There's no time for comfort, for the slow, teasing build - the need to be filled overrides everything.

You stumble through the doorway and you're already tripping over your own skirt before you get anywhere near the privacy of your own room. There isn't time to do it properly,to get comfortable, to check if anyone else is home - you need it now. Right now. And so you're stumbling in the hallway, falling to your knees because you tried to get undressed too fast, didn't want to pay heed to the buttons, not even the movement of your legs.

The wooden floor is hard, cold from a day of household neglect, no one to warm its planks with the soft footprints of those who belong. But you're here now, and the hallway floor just down from the front door is as good a place as any, as far as you're concerned. No one from outside can see you to tell you to stop, and so long as there's no one to make you stop, you know you'll keep going until you find the release you need.

You fumble with your backpack. The zipper's barely tugged open and your hand is already forcing its way inside, your mind a rainforest haze of desire, hoping that you'll find something in there that'll be perfect, a good thick dildo or a hot, ready cock. Of course there's nothing like that in there - why would there be? But your mind doesn't want to listen to answers like that, so you keep poring about until you find your hairbrush and wrench it out of your bag.

Your other hand is already busy, tugging the crotch of your stained panties aside, annoying you but at least allowing access, letting your fingers trace shudder-inducing lines up and down the length of your hungry lips. It's too early to touch your clit yet; you're far too sensitive, and you know from experience that playing with it directly at this stage will cause as much discomfort as it will pleasure. But you can warm up, at least, stroke your lips into life, feeling the entrance of your little hole contracting in rhythmic need even as you tease it open, your juices already leaking freely down to your thigh.

The need is back again, and stronger. You'd prefer to ease the way with a finger, to stroke your muscles smoothly to life, but you're too impatient, telling yourself that that isn't about what you'd prefer. This is need, pure need, and it goes far beyond anything your waking mind decides it likes. Bringing the brush down between your legs, you tell your patient, pleasure-loving desires to go fuck themselves, because right now you're all too consumed with the fantasy of being fucked hard, of having to make do with the leftover scraps of pleasure from being made to take whatever you're given. Of having someone else forcefully use your body as long and as hard as they want, giving you the firm knowledge that the only pleasure they're intentionally offering you is the satisfaction of pleasing them. Yes, that sounds good to you right now. You force the brush handle inside yourself.

Discomfort rushes up through your body, closely trailed by pain, but only for a moment; no matter how you try to rush, the way is already slick and wet, and after only two thrusts, the brush is buried inside you to the bristles. You start working it in and out of you, hot, tight muscles working hard against your own lubrication to cling onto the handle. But you're too wet for that and quickly becoming too hot all over; your breath is catching and air's being pumped in and out of your lungs in loud, rushed loads, the rise and fall of your chest matched in time to the thrusts of your hand as you fuck yourself with your hairbrush again and again. The heat's spreading - down your thighs and up through your chest and shoulders, a creeping, enveloping sensation, letting you know that your body's fully committed now, that there is no way you'll be satisfied of stopping anywhere short of releasing an overwhelming wave of pleasure. Maybe two.

As tiny beads of sweat form across your brow and the rest of your upper body, your free hand clutches at your breast, hating more than at any other moment the thick padding of the bra blocking your way, hating the fiddly buttons of your blouse that you're too impatient to undo. You settle instead for arching your back and tugging your blouse up your body, an awkward process that your rational mind would have told you takes longer than unbuttoning it properly would have done. But proper doesn't matter, because you've gotten the white cotton up over your chest, yanked your bra up, and now your breasts are free to rock in counterpoint to the thrusts of your hips and the brush.

Your fingers twist the hard rise of your nipples between them, teasing, playing in your usual way at first, but quickly progressing to pinching them hard. Electric sensations jolt through your chest, and somehow, the pain that you're inflicting on yourself is good, is exactly what you need. But pinching takes concentration, and it's hard enough to simply remember to breathe right now, so your hand soon settles back to grasping at your breast, your nails digging into the soft flesh that you spend so much time keeping hidden from everyone, when it feels so good to be free and touched.

At the same time, you're fucking yourself with the brush harder and faster than ever. You wish it was bigger, wish that it wasn't you who has to do the thrusting. You're all too aware that no matter how hard you go, you'll always be able to take what you give yourself, that no matter how good it feels to be making your cunt feel so much, it'll never compare to what another could force out of you. For you panting exhaustion means slowing muscles, breaks to simply breathe. But if it were another in charge, claiming your body for their own amusement - then they could keep going long after you've been drained of every last reserve of energy, until after you've lost the ability to form the words to beg them to stop. With someone else doing the fucking, someone else determined to pound every last drop of emotion from your pussy, they could continue until you passed out unconscious, and they could let you wake again to the bruising pain of knowing that you were in use the entire time your mind was gone, that you're still in use on waking. Another person could demonstrate that no matter how tired or over-sensitive you become, no matter how many orgasms are forced from you, how much pain you feel, you will continue to feel and take all of it until they are finished with you, and that you have no control whatsoever over when that might be.

The thought spurs you on, your hands working extra hard to prove that while they can't transcend those sane limits, they too are capable of providing you with boundless pleasure.

It doesn't take long - you've been horny as fuck all day, and all your thoughts and memories of that day in the locker room, the tease of having a repeat of it denied you has been driving you crazy. Seconds later you're arching up, toes and shoulder blades the only parts of your body remaining connected to the floor as every muscle in your body tightens up in anticipation. The release you've been searching for is finally let free, and you moan out low and long as every bit of life and tension drains out of you. Breathing is hard at first, the world around you a mess of dancing lights, but then it becomes easier as you let go, slipping into the darkness of blissful freedom.