How many times today[porn horror story]‘How often today?’ her diary silently demanded as

How many times today[porn horror story]‘How often today?’ her diary silently demanded as she prepared to write an entry. It was the same every night, it had gone on like this for two years. She would open the diary to the the day’s page then sit and stare for many long minutes, the questions repeating over and over, 'How often Beverley? How many times today?“ She laid the pen down, closed her eyes and thought hard. Once when she woke up, again in the shower and on the bus to work as that handsome young man stared at her. Once, no twice while on the phone speaking to the hypnotic voice of Gunther, the German Section manager. Twice during the meeting with the section head as he droned on and on about figures and returns and performance. Again when hot, young Lyndsey from accounts came down and perched on the corner of her desk, her stocking top showing through the split in her skirt. Twice in the toilets after Carol sent her that picture of the couple fucking in the train. Ten times before lunch. No, eleven, another while standing in the queue for lunch. Then again as she overheard a conversation between Jenny and Ted when she was telling him about the size of her latest lover’s cock. Three trips to the toilet in the afternoon, another chat with Gunther, two more meetings, once while waiting in the Production Managers office. Again on the bus, this time while standing in the aisle and brushing against the woman with the expensive perfume. Once, no twice while eating dinner, she had semolina pudding followed by a banana. Three times while watching TV. Fourteen times since lunch plus eleven in the morning, twenty five in total. Correction, twenty six, again while sitting there counting all the other times. She picked up the pen and wrote, 'Today I have masturbated 26 times and my clit is demanding more attention. I am incapable of resisting it. When it starts throbbing I can do nothing until it is satisfied.’ It had started as a joke. Beverley and Carol had given each other five year diaries on their eighteenth birthdays and both had promised to make a daily record of their sexual exploits. The idea being to exchange diaries when all the pages were full so they could read what each other had been doing. Beverley looked back at the entries she had made. Too many pages had only one entry, the number of times she’d masturbated. She turned the pages backwards looking for a day when there was more than just a record of her playing with herself. "Oh my God,” she said aloud. “Is it really eight months since the drunk at Cheryl’s party.” She looked back further, rapidly flicking through almost blank pages until she found another entry worth reading. “Ah, Julie, how could I go for so long without a taste of your delicious pussy.” 'Because you spend too much time playing with me!’ said a voice in the back of her mind. She started at the front of the diary, peeling off post-it notes and sticking them to pages where she’d done something more than masturbate. She counted the little pink slips sticking out. Five! Only five in a little over two years. “Why is my love-life so boring?” she demanded of the world at large. 'Because you’re in love with me!’ said the sqeaky little voice of her clit. 'Nobody else can please me like you do.’ Beverley opened her robe, spread her legs and screamed at her clit, “I hate you! I ought to cut you off!” Her clit start to throb again and her hand moved towards it. 'That’s right,’ said the voice, 'treat me bad. You know we love it when you hurt me.’ “No!” she screamed, bringing her hand down with a resounding slap on her stiffly throbing clit. 'Yes,’ the voice squealed, 'that’s it, hit me, punish me, hurt me.’ Beverley hit her pussy again and again but still her clit throbbed, growing bigger and stiffer, poking it’s head out to nod at her as she raised her hand for another slap. “Oh God!” she cried out, bringing her hand down and grabbing her sex, crushing the clit between her thumb and forefinger as her legs began to tremble. 'More!’ her clit demanded urgently. She stood up and tossed off her robe, threw herself on the bed and scratched the projecting head of her clit with a fingernail even as she crushed it. Still it begged for more and, as she had done thousands of times before, she succumbed to its demands. Satisfying it was becoming harder and harder. She pulled the short leather belt out from under the pillow and began to thrash her pussy with it. Every time the belt caught her clit, her back would arch and she’d scream with pleasure. Again and again she brought the belt slashing down, feeling the pain and pleasure mount, side-by-side, until they reached a peak, merged and blossomed in a cunt wrenching orgasm that left her weak and trembling. Sleep took her quickly as she lay in a stupor, her swollen clit numb from the abuse. She woke up at the sound of a scream. It was herself screaming in joy, in relief, in liberation. She’d been dreaming dark, forbidden dreams. To anyone else it would have been a nightmare but to Beverley it was freedom, freedomfrom the wicked tyrant that ruled her every waking hour. In her dream, her clit had been bigger than the biggest cock she’d ever seen. Everywhere she went it controlled her, made her touch it, stroke it, play with it until she quivered in orgasm, thousands watching and laughing and pointing to her and her giant clit. A little old lady walked up to her, calm as you like, handed her a knife and said, “Here you are dear, this is what you need for something like that. Beverley had taken the knife with grateful thanks and started hacking at the clit, slicing it into chunks and shreds and then cutting off all the pieces until there was nothing left but a deep gash. She came to full wakefullness and groaned as she felt her clit throbbing insistenty. 'Lovely dream,’ said the little voice, 'but you’ll never do it, you just haven’t got the balls! Ha-ha-ha.’ It was Saturday, no work to go to, nothing to do but a little shopping and spend the day playing with her clit. At least that was a normal Saturday but Beverley resolved that this was not going to be a normal Saturday. She wouldresist the need to masturbate, deny the demanding joy-button that was ruining her life. If she could do it for one day she would be free. If not, then … A quick shower and then she pulled on the special knickers she had made for occasions when masturbating just wasn’t an option. Ten layers or alternating wool and cotton strips, sewn over the gusset, through which she could feel nothing less than a sharp blow from the edge of her open hand. Armoured against temptation, she went into town to do her shopping. Her clit screamed for attention but got none. Then it tried coaxing, begging and cajoling but still she didn’t weaken, even when she found an attractive man staring at her in the supermarket queue. She couldn’t risk smiling at him even though she dearly wanted to, she was barely controlling her urges as it was, the thought of getting close to an attractive man would be just too much. She made it home without accident even though the old bus shook, rattled and bounced her in her seat. Still with her resolve intact, Beverley put away her shopping then made a cup of coffee before sitting down for a rest. When she woke up a few minutes later she found her right hand was inside her knickers and the squeaky voice was purring in satisfaction. 'I knew you couldn’t do it,’ it smirked gleefully. With a resigned sigh, she peeled off the heavily padded knickers and softly stroked the exposed tip of her clit. Then, still playing with herself, she set about a new task. Her gently stroking finger kept her clit purring happily as she moved around the house, bringing together a strange collection of household objects and setting them down on the kitchen table. There was a small magnifying mirror, two towels, some sticking plasters, a plastic chair from the patio, two disposable razors, a small srewdriver and some antiseptic ointment. Beverley removed her skirt, set the plastic chair at the end of the kitchen table, facing one of the ordinary chairs, laid one of the towels on the plastic seat then sat on the ordinary chair and picked up a razor. Slowly, without the benefit of shaving cream which she never used anyway, she began to shave her pussy lips, scraping off all the hair from the base of her outer lips all the way up to the top of her open slit. In her head the squeaky voice said, 'Ooh, that feels better, a lovely breeze to keep me cool and stimulated, all at the same time.’ Setting down the used razor, she picked up the screwdriver and broke open the second razor, carefully laying the blade aside. Then she moved to the plastic chair and set the mirror down on the first chair, angling it so that when sitting forward, she could see her pussy. 'What are you doing?’ the squeaky voice asked with a trace of worry. "Getting rid of my problem,” she replied firmly while looking at the reflection in the mirror. “Goodbye!” she said then picked up the blade from the broken razor. 'No!’ squeaked the little voice. 'NO!’ “YES!” she cried, drawing the sharp edge up over her clit hood, splitting it apart with a single stroke. 'Oh God!’ the voice moaned. “OH GOD!” Beverley echoed as pain surged through her lower body. 'Once more!’ the voice pleaded. 'Just once more before we part company.’ “A last farewell?” she queried, looking at her bleeding pussy in the mirror. 'Yes, a last farewell, please!’ the voice of her clit begged. “Maybe, we’ll see.” Then she drew the blade up her clit, splitting it cleanly in two. 'NO!’ screamed her clit. “YES!” Beverley screamed. “YES! YES! YES! OH GOD! YES!” “Come now, you filthy piece of useless flesh.” she gasped, laying down the blade and grabbing the two halves of her bisected clit. The little voice was weakening but still she heard it gasp, 'One last orgasm, for old time’s sake.’ She rubbed the two halves against each other, gasping and crying with joy. “Come on then, COME!” she shouted, picking up the blade and cutting one half off completely. The first tremor shook her body but she rode the wave and brought the blade down to the remaing half. A triumphant yell split the air as the last piece of her clit fell onto the blood soaked towel. The shuddering waves of her last orgasm went on for a few moments then she slumped back in the chair, pressing a finger into the wound to be sure it had all gone. There wasn’t as much blood as she’d expected and the flow was already stopping when she opened her eyes. She dabbed at the remaining flow with the towel soaked in antiseptic until it stopped then applied two plasters across the wound. She spent the rest of the day with a dull aching throb in her crotch and the euphoria of freedom from an over-demanding clitoris. She went to bed with a self-satisfied smile, lay down and fell into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. The next morning she woke up to an insistent itch inside her pussy and a tiny voice in her head, 'Hey Beverley, remember me, I’m your g-spot, I realy need some attention down here!’ -- source link

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