Sorry for not updating in a while — I've been busy with my new school. Still trying to adjust to the new environment, schedule, and friends.
Today was pretty tiring, I guess. Maybe because of all the fluid I lost, hehe. I just had my fourth orgasm before typing this post, and I'm planning to have one or two more before bed. I woke up feeling quite horny today (randomly), so I decided to bring my bullet vibe to school. Today's schedule was a bit all over the place but luckily, it started at 11 a.m., but ended before 3 p.m. because something came up with my lecturer, so the 3pm to 6pm lesson got canceled.
I had my first orgasm of the day in the morning while fingering myself in the shower. I was planning to do it on the bed, but I just changed my bedsheets on Sunday, so... yeah.
The second time came on the bus, unplanned, reckless, and almost defiant.
I'd brought my Thor along, nestled against me like a secret no one else was meant to feel. The original plan was simple, low setting, just enough vibration to maintain a private hum beneath the morning routine, then switch it off before the first bell. A controlled burn but the bus was nearly empty. and control, I learned, is fragile in the face of opportunity.
I turned it up. One. Two. Warm and teasing. Then three, a slow pulse that made me press my thighs together. By four, my breathing had changed. Shallow. Careful. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, but my focus had turned entirely inward.
At five, I broke.
The orgasm hit just past the halfway mark. Sharp, unexpected, and embarrassingly intense. My body clenched around the sensation while my mind scrambled to stay quiet, stay still, stay normal. For a long, suspended moment, I was caught between pure pleasure and pure panic.
The dampness spread faster than I expected. My shorts were soaked through. I shifted in my seat, trying to find an angle that wouldn't leave a mark. Crossing my legs. Uncrossing. Pretending to check my phone while my pulse pounded in my ears.
I was wearing nothing special. Black tee, normal shorts, the usual underneath but inside, I was a mess of embarrassment and arousal, shame and exhilaration, wanting to disappear and wanting someone to know all at once.
By the time we neared school, I had somehow recovered but my panty was still soaked through, clinging uncomfortably, and the fear was real, one more orgasm and my shorts might not survive. A visible stain in morning class? Unthinkable. So I made a pact with myself. Wait. Hold out until school ends.
I couldn't. During lesson, I chose the furthest seat, tucked into the corner. Only one other girl beside me , quiet, buried in her notes. The risk felt different without CY. In JC, she was always there to shield me, to cover the small sounds, the sharp breaths, the way my hand would freeze mid sentence but now? I was alone.
I turned Thor on anyway.
Low then higher. The vibration buzzed against me, louder than I remembered or maybe I was just more aware of every decibel in the silent classroom. The girl next to me didn't flinch. Deaf to it, somehow. Or just deeply distracted.
By the middle of class, I came for the third time. My head dropped to the table. My thighs pressed together beneath the desk, trying to contain the spill, the shudder, the stupid, helpless wave of pleasure that hit while the teacher droned on about something I'd never remember. I wasn't sleepy but that's what she thought. The girl beside me turned, smiled softly, and slid a cola candy toward my folded arms.
After the third orgasm, I didn't really listen to the lecture. My mind floated somewhere between dreaming and blank static, still buzzing, still damp, still replaying what my body had just done in a room full of unsuspecting people.
Inside, I could still feel the fading echoes of the climax: the deep, fluttering contractions that had gripped me without warning, the way my inner walls had pulsed around nothing but the memory of vibration, the slick heat that had spilled out and stayed there, warm and wet against the fabric of my panty.
Luckily, class ended early.
I grabbed my bag and rushed out, faster than my own lecturer, which felt strangely triumphant. As I walked, I could feel the dampness between my legs with every step. A slight squelch. The fabric of my shorts brushing against my inner thighs, dragging across skin that was still hypersensitive.
At the bus stop, I checked my phone: 3:15 PM. The afternoon buses moved quickly, no traffic, no delays. I was home before 4:30.
The moment I opened the door, my brother and his girlfriend froze.
They hadn't locked the main gate or the front door. I didn't know what they had been doing and honestly, I didn't want to know but their shocked faces told me I had interrupted something cheeky. There was a brief, awkward silence. I didn't explain. I just walked past them to my room.
Once inside, I finally peeled off my shorts and then my panty.
It was still soaked though only a small patch remained wet now. The rest had dried against my skin during the ride home. My thighs were still tacky and I swear, I could smell myself faintly, earthy, sweet, unmistakable.
My body had been heard. Almost seen. Almost caught, twice and yet, I had walked through my own front door like nothing happened. That tension, the secret thrill of carrying wetness through public buses, through afternoon streets, past my brother and his girlfriend, felt almost as good as the orgasms themselves.
I thought about going for another round. My body was still humming from earlier, that deep, hollow ache between my legs that hadn't fully settled. I could feel a faint throb whenever I shifted my weight, a dull pulse that reminded me how wet I still was but my brother and his girlfriend were home. Their voices drifted through the walls. So I decided against it.
After a quick freshen up, I changed into my running attire, black Adidas tee, FBT shorts, and only my black sports bra underneath. No panty.
The absence of fabric against me was immediately noticeable. The cool air from the ceiling fan brushed directly against my bare skin down there, a soft, teasing draft that made me clench involuntarily.
I had already planned to do something naughty at the park. The thought had been simmering in me all afternoon, a low, persistent throb between my thighs every time I imagined it. The feel of cold metal against my skin, the risk of someone seeing, the way my breath would catch if a stranger got too close but when I got there, the park was full.
Families spread across the grass. Couples leaning into each other on benches. Old men sitting with canes, watching the world pass with idle eyes. Everywhere I turned, there were people, too many people. The fantasy suddenly felt heavier, sharper.
Still, I walked the jogging path. Tried to move past the disappointment or finding a spot. The jog itself didn't release my hormones. It made the ache worse, deeper. Each footstep sent a small jolt upward through my body, and I could feel the wetness grow, the muscles inside me clenching around nothing, the itch of unsatisfied arousal building like a fever.
By the time I reached home, I realized I was more aroused than when I left.
My nipples had hardened beneath my tee. I could feel them pressing against the damp fabric of my sports bra, two tight, sensitive peaks that rubbed with every breath. When I lifted my shirt in front of the mirror, I saw them pointing out unmistakably despite I am wearing a sport bra. Lower, between my legs, a glossy wetness had reappeared. Not the soaked mess from before, but a slow, steady leak, clear and slick, trailing down the inside of my thigh in a thin, cool line.
I touched it without thinking. My finger came away shiny. I could smell myself again, warm, musky, undeniably aroused.
I had planned to do it again in the shower but my mom was still in the kitchen, too close. So I settled for just a shower. Rinsing off the evidence between my thighs. Washing away what lingered. All while quietly anticipating later when the house would fall asleep and I could finally touch myself properly.
The water did rinsed everything away, the sweat, the slickness, the evidence but the sensitivity refused to leave. My clit still felt swollen, tender, impossibly aware even after washing.
After drying off, I purposely pulled on a blue long tanktop (for easier access later). It fell beyond my mid-thigh, just enough to feel covered. Underneath, I wore my normal white bra and panty, nothing unusual, nothing meant to tease. The tanktop was technically designed for jeans or leggings, but I was at home. Who was going to see?
My parents, apparently.
My mom took one look at me and said I was dressed quite slutty. My dad agreed. They both started nagging, something about modesty, about dressing appropriately even at home, about what kind of example I was setting.
I sat through the entire dinner with my legs pressed together, my thighs still faintly sticky from earlier, my nipples still slightly hard beneath the fabric of my tanktop. All I could think about was how wet I had been, how wet can I be later and how badly I wanted to excuse myself and finish what my body had been begging for all day.
After dinner, I retreated straight to my room even when my dad called out for me to come watch *Hu ma* with them. I wasn't angry. I just had better things to do. My fingers were already reaching for my phone, already opening the chat with CY.
I told her everything. Not the polished version. The raw one. The three orgasms on the bus and in class, the way my thighs had trembled, the wetness that had soaked through my panty, the embarrassing squelch with every step to the bus stop. The disappointing jog that led nowhere. The shower where I had wanted to touch myself but couldn't because my mom was still in the kitchen, so I just stood under the hot water, hands sliding over my own skin, feeling the lingering soreness between my legs, washing away dried evidence while secretly wishing for more.
CY's reply came fast, You need the dildo power.
Lame, but it made me laugh and clench, just a little, remembering how empty I had felt earlier, how badly I had wanted something thicker, deeper, more inside me.
Then she guessed it. Mine period's coming soon. True. Of course she knew. She always knew.
We talked about our new schools for a while, the different hallways, the unfamiliar faces, how no one there knew what we used to do together in JC, how no one sat close enough to cover for me now. The conversation drifted easily, comfortably, until the air between the texts began to feel warm again.
I was the one who asked first. Want to play together? and She said yes.
Then we were both in our own beds, phones in hand(we called), fingers moving in sync a thousand miles apart. I could hear my own breathing change, faster, shallower. The wet sound of my own touch filling my quiet room. My legs fell open. My hips tilted upward without permission. I closed my eyes and imagined her there, watching, telling me exactly how to move. The fourth orgasm hit around nine or maybe closer to ten pm.
It came differently this time. Slower to build. More deliberate. The tension coiled low in my belly like a spring being tightened by her voice inside my head. When it finally released, it pulled. A deep, dragging wave that started from my core and spread outward, hot and electric, making my toes curl and my spine arch off the mattress. My inner walls clenched hard, then fluttered, then clenched again, milking nothing but air and my own desperate fingers. I felt the wetness gush, not just a damp patch this time, but a genuine spill that coated my fingers and dripped down to the sheets beneath me.
It took me a while before I could really get up. Every time I shifted on the bed, I felt it, that faint, residual throb deep inside. Not quite an ache. More like a memory my muscles hadn't let go of yet. A slow pulse that answered only to the thought of more.
I had planned to go again. Right there. Maybe flat on my back, fingers replacing what Thor had started but my limbs were heavy, my mind still half floating in that hazy space between spent and hungry.
So instead, I decided to update here first, while memory are still fresh. Fingers typing. Thighs still pressed together. The ghost of wetness cooling against my skin. On and off, while I wrote, my free hand wandered. Touching myself absently. Just a brush here, a press there. Feeling how slick I still was. How ready.
Now I'm done. Time for another round.
Or two. Or three. Hehe.
Anyway, enjoyed the PH. Happy Labour Day, loves.
xoxo
