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After sending Pari home, I went to bed. I needed to sleep. I let you sleep in the armchair. There was no reason to wake you up after what had been a very exhausting day for you, nor was there any reason to tuck you in. Too much tenderness was counterproductive. 

I wake up when you were running around the apartment looking for Pari. It is very late at night. 

"Where is she?" you ask angrily as you stand over the bed. An imposing figure of muscle and rage.

"How should I know?" I ask. "Gone home, I think." I watch with satisfaction as your anger grows. 

"Are you kidding me? Why did you let her go?!!" You are almost shouting, and I can see it boiling inside you. 

"What do you think I should have done? Tie her up here and keep her prisoner forever? Why did you let her go?" Your face turns red, and I can see you struggling for self-control. 

"What if she runs to the cops?! We raped her! Do you realize that?" Now you're really shouting. 

"We didn't rape her. You raped her. And she's not going to the police. Now let me sleep," I say, turning away from you in bed. 

That's too much for you. You jump onto the bed, turn me onto my back, and your hand grabs my neck. It's a fantastic feeling. I'm instantly wet and hope that you squeeze.

The idea of you cutting off my air and fucking me hard overwhelms me for a second. You see the lust in my eyes, and it makes you even angrier.

You worry about the consequences of the rape, and I want to fuck. Your grip on my neck loosens, and I sigh regretfully.

"She won't go to the police because I don't want her to." Your eyes widen in amazement. Your hand is on my neck again, but this time I control myself and look you in the face challengingly.

The anger in your eyes gives way to uncertainty, and I hold your gaze with an almost mocking smile.

"What are you?" you ask angrily, but I see a hint of fear in your eyes.


"If you want, I'll bring it back to you in a few days, but for now, let me sleep. I'm really tired. If you want to get unnecessarily upset, then go ahead, but I'm out of this matter for the day." I say this into your slightly surprised face and turn to my side again.

You don't stop me.

Shortly afterward, I fall asleep, and when I wake up in the morning, you've gone.

Good. I have a lot to do. 

After a quick shower, I drive home. I'm sure Pari is already waiting for me with breakfast. 

The subway is not full, but as always, it reminds me of the beginning of my career, which took place in a crowded subway about 10 years ago. 

I was 17 years old and going to school. The subway was packed at that time, and you could hardly move. It was the height of summer, and I was wearing a short skirt. 

It often happened that you were touched in the subway or that a man's body pressed against you for too long.

The gropers who sometimes grabbed girls (including me) by the buttocks in the crowd always got off immediately.

I was tall and slim, and my skirt was provocatively short. I liked being touched and not knowing which of the men behind me had dared to press his erection against me.

I flinched slightly each time, of course, but I didn't turn around in disgust or look for the culprit.

That morning, I finally got what I wanted.

I felt a hand on my backside and stiffened a little. The subway swayed, and I leaned almost accidental against the grabbing hand.  I had no idea who was standing behind me, but I hoped he had balls.

The hand moved a little further down, and a finger touched my leg. I moved my legs a little apart as if to get a better stand in the swinging wagon.

My pussy was getting wet.

The subway pulled into the next station, and a couple of people got off. I was sure my groper was gone now. They always got off at the next station.

To my delight, I was wrong.

As more passengers got on, it became very tight again, and I felt his hand on my bottom and his finger under my skirt from below. A man's body was also pushed against me from behind, and I pressed myself against him. The finger went up to my buttocks, and now I was really wet.

I was wearing a thong and felt the finger touch the little string that lay between my buttocks. As he slowly felt his way towards my wet pussy, I swayed with the tube in his direction.

I had to feel his finger on my wet flesh!

I was afraid he would get off and I would be left standing there, wet and untouched.

The next station came, and the passengers were about to push in and out to get off. He knew it, and I knew it. The finger ran past the thin strip of my thong and into me. It was wonderful, fantastic, and so hot! I pressed against him, but the door of the subway opened, and we were separated.

I didn't know if he had gotten off, but I hoped he was putting his wet finger in his mouth if he had.

I didn't know what he looked like, but he knew it from me.

I hoped we would see each other again.

At school, I ran to the restroom first and sank my fingers deep into my wet pussy.

I had to fuck myself, or I wouldn't make it through the day.

When I came gasping and then left the toilet, there were two girls standing there with flushed faces, staring at me.

They heard everything.

I licked my fingers and only then washed my hands. They didn't say anything.

Let the cunts envy me!

Of course, they would tell everyone at school. But I didn't expect anyone to tease me about it. My propensity for violence was well-known in my class and the parallel classes. They would only whisper behind my back. That was fine. I was used to that and I always used it to my advantage.

Still reveling in the fond memories, I got off the subway and hurried home. I had to pay my first respects to my guest in the basement.
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