Masked Girl: PART II
Sophia's lips went dry. She instinctively used the tip of her tongue to help ease them apart. Shutting her eyes, she listened closely to try and hear it again.
She'd overheard stories before, from her father, how he'd caught one couple here before - young lovers seeking a quiet place. Hearing these stories always made her feel a little excited. The first time she overheard her father telling her uncle she quickly ran up to her room above the stacks where she imagined for hours the two lovers searching each other's bodies in the darkest corners of her f****y shop. In her fantasy, the two weren't interrupted, but instead were left to their own devices, or however Sophia would manage to imagine. That was when she was only a teenager. She was older now, though sometimes she would find herself returning to the old fantasies that first introduced her to her own body.
Now she was hearing those sounds, the sounds she had imagined all her life. The bated breathe, the rustling of clothes, and even what sounded like a moaning, f***ed through pursed lips. She gathered up a few books and silently got to her feet. She'd go to return these books, whatever they were, to the back. Of course. That was what she was going to do anyway. If she found anything she'd kick them out. Teenagers, for sure. Cutting school to make-out in her f****y store. She began to feel a little empowered.
Those bastards have nothing better to do. She tucked the books close to herself as she rounded the last corner to the back where they kept their small stack collection. The noise became more clear as she got closer. Deep and heavy from the bottom of the throat.
Under the groan she could hear kissing, long and wet. She remembered the last kiss she had like that, her boyfriend at university on their first night. He cupped her breast, her ass and hips, hers legs all at once, and the wet kiss they shared. She pushed the books into her breast as she stopped suddenly.
This was certainly a man. And the noise grew louder, over the sounds of kissing. She remembered this sound, not unlike a wet kiss...
Sophia could feel her legs pressing together, and the sensation building between them. Light and airy, like a tickle and an itch in one. Her long brown hair fell on the tops of her breasts as she stared down at her feet, struggling to make out more of the sound.
At 24 she had not been with many men, or at least with as many as she wished. To make up for this she became an expert in the details of her own body. She didn't like to think of it as masturbation, the word being too scientific and cold. What she did was unlike either of those.
More than once she had been caught down in the basement, exploring the many books on sex. She had found some in particular, big picture books from foreign and cutting edge cultures like New York and Paris. In them were one, two, or even more men and women touching themselves and each other in the way she had taught herself. Some were by famous photographers and others were painters. Her favorite were the gentlemen's magazines her father brought back after one of his trips to the city.
She'd pour over the magazines in the few minutes she could steal before her absence would be known, sometimes daring to reach in and rub her clit before retreating to her room upstairs.
With the right magazine, Sophia could make herself cum within a few minutes, on a good day. Other days would take longer. Some days, she would draw it out as long as she could, relishing in the details of every touch before cumming. But that was only in her room where she knew her locked door could protect her secret.
Once, when her father had left early, she brought one of his magazine up to her room. She had planned this from the moment she knew he'd be leaving for the afternoon. She writhed from anticipation, pushing herself against her stool behind the counter to feel the course padding through her thin skirt, sliding back and forth to hand change back to the customers, them completely ignorant of the wetness she felt gathering against the little bit of lace, one of the secret luxuries she afforded herself, now soaked. She wanted to drop them to the ground right there, the open air would brush against her, kiss her.
Once he had left, she quickly turned over the sign, not bothering to lock the door. She undressed and spent the rest of the afternoon surveying every detail of the magazine. She liked seeing the men, their cocks stiff - especially just as it pushed through, pushed apart the swollen cunt, imagining how round it would feel inside her, how she would push against it, but it wouldn't bend. Sometimes there would be two women with the man. She also like seeing the women. Some had beautiful golden hair, other girls had dark, black and straight hair like her own. They wore pretty make-up and sometimes, heavy and elaborate jewelry. Sophia knew she liked men, but the thought of another woman made her excited too, in a different way. Unlike the men who showed off their cocks like muscles in defiance, the women used other ways to attract lovers.
Sophia saw herself in the place of the dark haired girl, at the top of the bed, just as she was in the picture, another woman using her tongue in ways she imagined with her fingers. Her cheek would be soft if it brushed up against her thigh, her skin silken and fragrant, her kiss yielding, her tongue pressing along the stretch of her slit then pushing up on her clit. Maybe there'd be a man, like in the picture, except he'd watch first, from the corner of the room. She'd watch him, his chest, his arms, his cock reaching farther to the floor, fat and heavy from its own weight, before bulging upward.
On that day she did not need to disguise or hold back her moans. She articulated each touch, each surprise, the heavy and amorphous swells, growing before her, cumming over her own fingers, the space between them slipping over itself and inside her, using her cum to bring her again, and cumming as she gasped for air, her eyes shut tight now, staring straight into the blackness, sharing that darkness with the nameless girl curling the fingers inside her, drawing every bit of cum her body could muster, before her squeals and her shakes, her convulsing and her fits, her belly filling with warmth, now inevitably the space inside her, dripping, warming.
Pulling the books harder into her breast, she listened to the sounds from around the corner, heavier now and growing more intense. She had forgotten what it sounded like to hear it with your own ears, fucking.