This must be what female cats feel like when they’re in heat. I now understand the caterwauling, the rubbing up on things, the biting, the hissing, the need to wave one's throbbing parts in the air and beg someone to take care of them for you.

A trip to the nearby climbing forest is part of the day-four-morning program, and I don’t know if I should hate or thank Missy-from-three-days-ago when she signed me up for this.

The guide looks like Stone Cold Steve Austin’s brother, toweringly tall, broad shoulders, shiny bald head, bearded smirk, confidence out his ears and all, and the smirk turns positively wicked when he tightens up the straps of my safety harness. He knows exactly what it does to my cunny. He is very obvious about noticing my pebbling nipples and about the way the harness squeezes my curves.

He pulls the straps extra tight. The harness encircles my heated body just right, and the padded middle parts push tormentingly and deliciously against my sex and squeeze my dewy, puffy labia together… I blush furiously and try not to be as conspicuous as him as I observe the thick roll of his cock reaching down the right leg of his shorts.

I ask myself if he ever strapped someone into this harness, hooked them up to hang there helplessly, and then fucked them with that massive cock of his.

Or if he’d like to.

It’s really nothing personal towards the younger Rattlesnake, impressive and attractive though he is. Every person in this retreat is like catnip to my pussy these days.

At the same time, each and every one of them is my personal nemesis.

I want – need – privacy, yet they keep me constant company. At least one of them is always there. One of them comes into the bathroom and politely asks for paper, then engages in light-hearted conversation across the stalls to mitigate the slight embarrassment. One of them sits next to me (very closely) during lunch to share some juicy office gossip – so close that they would notice me grinding my clit against the ergonomically molded seats. One of them accompanies me into the shed to fetch a climbing helmet that fits me better.

It’s like they’re conspiring against me.

Somehow, in my mind, one after the other becomes a suspect in having a picture of me masturbating and a recording of me begging and moaning on their phone. One after the other seems equally likely, and my brain interprets every glance and every smile to mean something more… until suddenly all of them are in on the joke. Until this entire retreat has been planned with only me and my nightly performance in mind. Until all of them want me.

And I… don’t know… that I hate it…?

I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

During the vice president’s afternoon presentation, the content of which is entirely a blur, I even dare to misuse the complementary Meadow Breeze gel pen that each of the audience found on the tablet arm of their designated chair. My chair is in the far back row in the shadow of the projector’s glare, so I surreptitiously drop my right hand between my thighs, spread them a little, and poke the tip of the slim, long writing implement against the crotch of my panties. I’m rubbing up and down, imagining it was someone’s finger, or maybe the tip of our vice president’s telescopic pointer stick… right there, in front of the whole audience, in the bright beam of light, with the colorful bar chart projected onto my bare ass…

“Does this stick look sturdy enough for a little caning?” I hear him ask the audience, and I nod a jerky affirmative – it seems very, very sturdy indeed, high-quality work, supple, switchy – then startle from my trance when everyone around me starts clapping politely. I drop the pen which has left a moist indent on my panties. One of my co-workers (I think it's James, it's hard to tell against the projector's glare) picks it up and hands it back to me. I am mortified and also want to ask him whether he noticed that the pen was a bit damp at the end.

Day number four is the longest, most exhausting, most frustratingly exciting day, and I’m ready to beg for release. Beg.

It’s just past nine when I’m sitting on my bed in my bathrobe, my back propped up against the headboard, fiddling with my phone, and keeping my eyes on the people around me who are winding down.

That’s when the message comes through. My thumb trembles as I tap the push notification.

[Unknown: Dozens of your colleagues enjoyed the view today.]

I think back on our short hike today, and on how the safety harness framed, bisected, pushed, and bulged up all my otherwise modest curves, and I know he’s not talking about the spectacular landscape in the hills around the lodge or the impressive sight of the winding river and its rapids.

He knows I know.

He also – somehow, I don’t know, how – knows that I’m reading his texts. That I’m wide awake even though my bones are tired from the exhausting day, preceded by a demanding, taxing night as it was, and that I’m gnawing my thumbnail.

[Unknown: I think you should give them the chance to enjoy it some more tonight.]
[Unknown: Up close.]

I should put my damn phone aside, screen down, and maybe even shut it off entirely.

I should.

But I can’t.

He has my picture – probably pictures, plural, now – and my moans, and he… he could send them to my bosses, or my colleagues, or put them on the internet in general, and…

I forget precisely why this is bad. All I know is that my pussy is weeping and throbbing.

Enjoy. Up close.

Up close.

Bad, bad girl.

[Unknown: You will put your trusty sleep mask on again]
[Unknown: because we know that being helpless makes you horny]
[Unknown: and you’ll take your panties off]
[Unknown: because we know they’re already soaked.]
[Unknown: Since you’re loud, I think it’d be best if you put them in your mouth.]

My mouth fills up with spit. I swallow and read on with trepidation. His messages come more slowly as if to torment me with the seconds of wait time between them.

Or as if he is typing them one-handedly.

[Unknown: And then you will kneel on your bed, on top of your blanket.]
[Unknown: You’ll put your forehead on the mattress.]
[Unknown: Your beautiful ass will go up high in the air]
[Unknown: knees nice and wide]
[Unknown: so that we can all see your pretty pussy dripping]
[Unknown: and how you’re stirring it with your fingers]
[Unknown: and what it looks like when your cute little asshole winks during an orgasm.]

I read and reread the instructions. My galloping heartbeat wanders around my body, from my chest, up to my throat, down to my belly button, and finally settles between my legs.

An orgasm. I inhale deeply, slowly, trembling, and push my lower lip against my teeth.

The phone’s screen fades to black after an eternity, but the letters from Unknown’s instructions still hover in my vision. Sleep mask. Panties in your mouth. Kneel. Ass up. Knees wide. Pussy. Dripping. Stirring fingers. Asshole. Orgasm. Orgasm. Orgasm. I put the phone down on my nightstand and feel the excitement stir and curdle my stomach.

I crawl into bed and then I lie there for the next hours, eyes closed but wide awake to the last nerve and muscle of my body and my thoughts taut as violin strings. I listen to all the people around me – Andrea comes to bed late, then has a short, hushed telephone call with someone (her partner, I think, talking about her kids) before she goes to sleep. Sometime around 11, Koryn goes to the restroom, audibly yawning and dragging her feet both ways. Someone nearby farts. Someone tosses and turns in bed and makes the bed frame creak.

I notice how things get quieter and quieter as time stretches unbearably.

Until…  it seems quiet enough. At last.

An orgasm. An orgasm.

I reach underneath the duvet and slip my panties off just like I did last night. Again, I can already feel my wetness on them as I fold them into a small parcel which I then put right next to my pillow… just in case.

Moving very slowly while my heart is beating as though I’m sprinting, I maneuver myself on until I lie on my back, on top of the duvet with the duvet flat on the mattress below.

The air kisses my naked legs, my pebbled nipples underneath my sleepshirt (the third and last fresh one I brought on this retreat), and the sweaty skin at the base of my neck. My lower lip feels swollen with how much I’ve been biting it in agitation, anxiety, and anticipation.

My breath shuddering, I move my pillow to the side and roll over onto my belly. My lower back feels wet with sweat, the fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin.

Already I feel so vulnerable. We know that helplessness makes you horny. The heat between my legs flares up as my nakedness is stroked by the cool breeze.

I close my eyes and visualize the instructions I’ve received. All fours, forehead down, ass up… I wonder if my tits will dangle in that position. If my small belly will jiggle. With my knees and thighs wide, how much of me will be visible?

All of it, Missy.

I shudder and curl up, drawing my knees underneath me, and before I know it, I’m right where Mr. Unknown wants me. Kowtowing on top of my bed, a pervert’s idea of a Geisha ready to receive the client who bought her virginity; a kinkster’s vision of a Chinese concubine bowing to the foreign warlord; a nun, stripped of her habit, genuflecting deeply in front of the priest’s private altar in a blasphemer’s imagination.

But he wants me exposed completely. So, I pluck the side of my sleep shirt until it bunches up against my shoulders and neck, and my ass is entirely uncovered.  My ass, and my cunt, and my asshole.

Stifling a moan, I widen my knees and lower my butt towards my heels a little. If I close my eyes and imagine hard enough, I might convince myself that I’m just doing yoga. Child’s pose. In a bed surrounded by forty-eight colleagues, half-naked, in the middle of the night, and so fucking horny, so fucking wet, dripping- 

I fumble my sleep mask onto my face as quickly as I can. Again, all noises and sensations seem to increase in volume, my pulse grows into thunder in my ears, my breath whooshes in and out as I pant like a dog, and the breeze on my skin gains weight as though it’s really many hands caressing my skin and hair.

And finally, mercifully, I allow my hands to reach between my legs the way they have been prevented from all day. And yesterday. And the day before.

“Ooh,” I moan into the soft bedding below me and bite into it to try and silence myself. “Ahh God, oh, oh.” My fingers glide through my folds without any friction. I’m buttery soft, slick, swollen, utterly sensitive.

The position is so different from what I know. I only ever masturbated lying on my back before. In this new pose, the layout of my anatomy feels a little foreign to my own fingers. My labia and my muscles seem to bulge differently. My clitoris feels more prominent. I can feel how my vagina gapes open, and how the night air licks me… on the inside.

My middle and index finger slide up and down my slick slit, slowly at first and then faster, feeling every twitch, every spasm. I gently start rocking my hips, humping and grinding, sliding my finger into my hot hole just because I can, prodding at all my muscles, my swollen and weeping tissues, rubbing every sensitive spot I can reach.

In the silence of the night, the slurp and smack of my wetness being stirred rings out so loudly. I silently pray that nobody hears… or that everybody hears… I screw my eyes shut and bite the fabric of the duvet harder, my breath huffing, “Unf! Hhhf!” out of my nose.

Somebody tosses and turns and makes their bedframe creak.

Somebody mumbles in their sleep. In half-sleep. Awakening.

Somebody shuffles their feet on their way towards the restroom, passing just a couple of meters by me, so close.

I hear them stop.

I don’t hear them shuffle on.

“Ooh,” I moan into my grinding teeth, and I can't help but shake and jiggle my ass around for my invisible, maybe imaginary, audience's benefit.

Somebody gets up out of bed and creeps over to my bed, following the shlick-shlick-shlick sound of my middle and ring finger plowing my soaked pussy, and when they see me-

The strangers’ attention, their gazes on me, moves over my skin like a physical touch. It prickles, hot and sweaty, and sinks in deep, into my core. The first clench of orgasm sends a shuddering convulsion through my whole body.

Can they actually see my asshole in the darkness? I imagine touching myself there with wet fingers.

Another clench. My audience gasps softly. We saw that.

Oh God, it’s coming.

You look so beautiful tonight, Missy.

Do they imagine getting onto the bed behind me, grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand away, and replacing my fingers with theirs… or their tongue…? Or their…?

Mike L., the CEO’s assistant, is standing by in his immaculately tailored suit. He takes off his fine navy tie and makes a thick knot into the middle of it – and then he slings the silk around my face and stuffs the knot into my mouth, tying the ends at the back of my head, like a makeshift ballgag. You’re entirely too noisy, Miss Carmichael.

I imagine the strong, good-looking climbing forest guide lining up his thick cock to plunge it into my gaping pussy. He’d grab the back of my neck and push my face down onto the pillow and tell me something about using safety clips on my naughty little nipples.

I clamp my teeth harder into the bedding.

Beautiful, alluring Michelle steps forward and slides the pad of her perfectly manicured forefinger down my lower back, into the sensitive crack of my ass, and to my even more sensitive rosebud. Bitch in heat, she says as her fingertip circles, circles, circles my twitching muscle.

Our senior CEO stands by my headboard and looks down at me with his steely gaze. Miss Carmichael, you should know that LX&G expects you to serve the company in every respect.

“Fuck...” I whimper into the piece of fabric in my mouth. It’s coming. I ram my fingers deep into me just to feel the wet, hot-oiled, fluttering clasp of my sheath around my digits.

They will all see, Missy.

“Hahh. Fuck.”

Up close. Come closer.

Please, listen.

Watch. Watch me.

Come. Closer.

They’re reaching out-

You’ve been a bad, bad girl.

“Yesss!” I sob voicelessly, shout, "Yes! Yes! Ah!" into the duvet with my mouth wide open. My inner muscles clutch my fingers fiercely like a hot, slickly soft vice, sucking them like a slimy throat. My back arches convulsively, and I spray my hand and my arm with my wetness as I come and come and come.

The first time that night.

***

I sit next to Andrea at breakfast the next morning. She has invited me, and I have accepted the invitation. We both acknowledge that this is a sad attempt to make new memories together so that we might both forget the most recent one.

The one about how Andrea woke me up with a shake of my shoulder – I had clearly slept through my phone’s alarm – and we both noticed at the same time that I was absolutely naked. The duvet was carelessly draped over my hip, one of my legs thrown over it and an arm hugging it to my bare chest as though it was my lover.

I stammered some explanation about the heat and sunburn, and she made some understanding noises, but she saw the neatly folded-up panties next to my pillow and probably noticed the wet stamp my pussy has left where it was pressed to the duvet, and I know she has questions that have no good answers.

I keep my head down, though.

Buried in my phone, to be precise. Frantically searching.

The conversation with Mr. Unknown is gone.

Gone. Entirely. There is no record of any incoming or outgoing messages these last three days, apart from the couple I received and sent to Lisa, my cousin holidaying in Chile, and from my mom who wanted to let me know that someone important-sounding from the bank had called and if I could help.

I’m used to Mr. Unknown’s godlike omniscience, so omnipotence to go with it doesn’t really surprise me. He could have hacked into my phone remotely, or just taken it from the nightstand – Lord knows I was too out of it after my jilling marathon to notice anything – and unlocked it. He has observed me; he could’ve easily watched me enter my passcode.   

I don’t know if I’m relieved, scared, or… disappointed?

'What kind of blackmail scheme is this, anyway?' I think to myself as I go through my phone's settings and try to find something like a recycle bin, where deleted messages may have gone. 'Blackmailers aren't supposed to disappear like that, are they?'

Then again... I wrack my brain to remember whether Mr. Unknown actually ever said - or even implied - that he'd use my picture or my, well, my sounds for anything. Was he really a blackmailer at all? He never even hinted that he'd send them to someone if I didn't do what he asked, didn't he?

It might have all been in my head.

I might be crazy.

And this retreat has three more days and two more nights. What am I supposed to do with myself-?

“…isn’t it, Missy?” someone asks, and I flinch and lift my eyes at the mention of my name.

“Pardon?” I search for who was speaking. Andrea, Kenneth, Jackson, Mary, and Lisa are sharing the table. “I wasn’t listening. My phone…” I wobble it a bit in my clutch and make a dissatisfied face.

“Something wrong with it?” Jackson asks into his coffee cup. “Maybe I can help? I fix Apple shit for a hobby. Pisses them off something fierce since customers aren’t supposed to repair their old toys.” He grins merrily, winking at me.

“Uh, thanks, but…” I say, trying to temp down the blush as I remember a certain... toy. “It’s not the phone itself, really. It’s just… uhm. D'you think you could maybe show me how to recover a deleted photo?”


***FIN***

Thank you for reading! Leave a comment, make my day!