Class 5A

She leaned her head against the fogged window, trying not to wiggle her legs like a woman who had to pee. Halfway to Philadelphia on the afternoon train, she could barely keep from masturbating in her seat, or begging the businessman seated next to her to reach under her skirt to do the deed for her. Oh God, she was such a mess, and spending several days with Charles was going to be so hard. It would be bad enough to return to her fiancé with her tail between her legs, but it was much, much worse than that. How could she ever explain to Charles that she had some sort of voracious beast between her legs, a runaway, devouring hole that felt as though it could never be totally filled? She couldn't. She couldn't even explain it to herself. Nor could she understand how her appetites kept increasing like this. She shouldn't be all super-itchy, she should be exhausted, and sore.

And satisfied. How could she still be so horny after so much... fornicating? She couldn't be, and yet there they were right now — her tunnel, feeling a mile deep, and her clitoris, feeling far too large and far too needy. Her nipples were the same. She opened the front of her coat just enough to peek inside, to make sure that they really weren't as large as pill bottles. Fuck, something... terribly unusual, was going on, something way beyond a "normal" sexual awakening. It didn't make sense that her body's needs would change this dramatically, and so fast, as though a switch had been flipped in the depths of her being. And the way her vagina and nipples ached... It was almost like a hallucination, a misfiring connection between her body and her brain. Was her body dishing out sensory punishment for years of repression? Or maybe she was truly going insane, and like all insane people, she had no way to analyze her insanity, because she was insane.

But still, certain thoughts nagged at her, certain inconsistencies, like her hands last night. Why had she felt them as being bound together, immobilized, when they hadn't been? And how could she have lost her focus so completely to begin with? She had been so determined to attend Ash Wednesday evening services. But rather than having her forehead smeared with ashes, she got her face and much of her body smeared with the delicious liquids from two women's cunts. Giuseppe's cock in her mouth, a giant phallus plumbing her depths, eating pussy for the first time... It was like having her own hedonistic Mardi Gras carnival right inside of her apartment, all inhibitions tossed to the winds.

And then today, from the moment she opened her eyes, her lust had continued unabated. She awakened to the ringing of her phone. Answering it, she decided that she must have still been dreaming, because it was Joel. Got her number in yesterday's class, he said. Checking on her, he explained. Seeing if she was okay.

Okay? Her face and hair smelled like she'd used Holly and Katia's cunt juices as bath oil, and just hearing Joel's voice made her throat feel parched. Because she wanted — no, needed — to drink his cum. Desperately. Impossibly. Immediately.

Joel was shy on the phone. She heard the desire in his voice, although he tried to hide it. Pierce wanted the students to spend the next few days drawing figures outside of class, he reminded her, even if that meant simply sketching people in coffee shops or out on the street. Maybe it wasn't right to ask, but she was so beautiful, would she have any desire to act as his model for a few quick drawings?

"Yes!" she screamed into the mouthpiece, knowing full well that he also hoped to find her hands on his hard dick again.

"Yes? Great! Maybe we could meet at..."

The silly boy was still trying to disguise his desires. "Come here to my apartment, Joel. Soon. Immediately. We'll have the drawing session right here, in private."

A few beats of silence, the words and tone of her voice being digested. "Catherine... I'm not calling because... I wasn't suggesting that..."

"Yes you did and yes you are, Joel. Don't lie. And you can draw me nude. I want you to draw me nude."

Had he really believed that she would let him get to any drawing? He arrived at her door twenty minutes later, sketchpad and his little art toolbox in hand. She met him with her pussy glistening and her nipples straining forward, wearing nothing but her new garters and stockings, with the ruby red heels that Holly and Katia had left behind.

Drawing. What a laugh. How could Joel draw anything with his face buried between her tits? How could he draw when she had him on the floor within seconds? How could he draw when she pivoted her body so that all he could see was her sopping wet pussy, wide open, charging towards his tongue?

He wasn't as artful at eating her pussy as Katia and Holly had been, but he didn't need to be when her clitoris felt as large as an apricot, her entire nether-region ready to burst with nectar. She came on his face, and came again with his tool jammed into her depths. Joel's cock was gorgeous, by far the biggest and fattest one she had yet to encounter. And he was a good boy, staying hard for her, holding off his release until she licked her juices off of him, her hungry tongue dazzling him, making him pant, and shout, and bellow. She came again when his milky torrent hit her tongue. Sweeter than Giuseppe, a little less tangy than William, with hints of chocolate and plum. She gave him a few minutes to recover before repositioning her body to score his wonderful cum as a sixty-nine.

She drank him down three times before sending him on his way, and yet her cravings remained, and actually grew through the morning. And that sense of growth — it couldn't be true, she knew it wasn't true— but it felt as though her clitoris was literally becoming larger and more sensitive by the minute. The sensation had been so alarming in Penn Station that she locked herself into a stall in the ladies' room to check her anatomy, only to fall into an uncontrollable finger-fuck session that had her screams echoing off of the tiled walls. She just couldn't understand it — a hand mirror confirmed that her anatomy was unchanged, yet her clitoris felt as though it was easily as large as one of her thumbs.

It was there right now, feeling huge and swollen and oh-so-fucking sensitive under her skirt, the train's subtle vibrations constantly keeping her on edge. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't real, that her pussy was not as she felt it to be, but what use were her rational thoughts against the signals emanating from her own body? She kept losing, losing her mind and losing her will, the flood of incendiary desires undermining any possibility of traction.

How? Why? She had already scratched her unthinkable itches innumerable times, why were the desires still there? How many dicks did she have to suck, how many pussies did she have to eat, to move on? It was as though the more she engaged in outrageous behaviors, the more hollow she felt inside. She might expect that — to feel a hollowness of the soul after what she had done, some disquieting pangs of conscience or guilt. But this was different. This lack of fulfillment was a physical sensation, a deep, almost cellular longing, centered somewhere in the depths of her dripping cunt.

She needed to save herself. There had to be some psychological equivalent to a "revert to saved" computer command, some way to restore the old Catherine. Because this current reality, this slipping between the woman she knew and some other whorish self, could not stand. She instinctively knew that she could not be split in two like this for long, the differing versions of herself battling for domination. One set of desires would win, one set of goals would have to be met. And what were the goals? On the one side: marriage, safety, mega-wealth, children and a fine reputation. On the other side: less extreme prosperity, multiple partners, risky behaviors and forbidden sexual experiences.

Practical thinking, that was her only hope. And she could start by cleaning up the language in her mind. Yes, her itchy vagina was driving her crazy, but since when had it become a "dripping cunt" in her thoughts? She had been so wrapped up in trying to control the actions of her body — unsuccessfully — that she hadn't even realized the degree to which her thoughts had degraded. Well then — no more cocks and dicks and pussies. And it was definitely making love, not fucking. Vagina, penis, make love, vagina, penis, make love... There, that wasn't so hard. Victory number one.

The train snaked around a wide turn, and she could see the engine at the front plunging into the darkness of an overpass. Like a huge long cock entering a dark tunnel... Oh God... Fuck, oh God, oh myfuckingGod... She glanced down at her skirt, and was surprised that her screaming vibrating gigantic clit wasn't causing the fabric to visibly move.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Maybe she could think more coherently if everything in her life wasn't a metaphor for the pleasures of sex! And maybe the "old' Catherine could reassert herself more if her lips weren't so parched, because it had been hours since she'd swallowed any cum.

Dammit! Not cum, semen! Semen, semen, semen... There, victory number two. She loved to drink semen, not cum, and if she could keep that straight she might be able to move forward.

She licked her lips. Charles had semen. She'd never tasted his, but how different could it be? She fucking loved the taste of cum... semen. Maybe every other thing in her life was a question mark, but there were no doubts on this point. She loved cum, and had a lot of cock-sucking to catch up on. Cunt-licking, too. My God, the waste. All of these years since puberty flying by, with no awareness of the literal taste of sex. It was the equivalent of growing up eating nothing but TV dinners and burgers, oblivious to the wonders of French cuisine. But maybe she could make up for lost time. How many cocks and pussies could she get her lips on in one day if she really set her mind to the task?

Oh fuck. "It's happening agaaaiiin," she lightly sang, causing the man in the seat next to her to lift his eyes from his paper. She shrugged her shoulders and he went back to his reading, apparently not detecting the scent of her growing arousal.

She gazed out the window again, trying to keep her fingers from inching towards her aching cun... itchy vagina. How had all of this happened, when had it begun? Perhaps her problems stemmed from having too much free time on her hands. Idle hands are the devil's playground, and her hands had been playing like hell in recent days. She never should have quit her job. She had felt so together while working at the magazine, so focused. Could she reclaim her editing position? Sure she could, they'd almost begged her to stay. And just think of it — hot, sexy models around all of the time, and William's hard cock just down the hall, waiting for her to blow it and taste...

"Stop that!" she cried out loud, startling the other passengers. Fuck, they thought she was crazy. She furrowed her brow, repeating her new mantra. Vagina, penis, make love, vagina, penis, make love...

She was shaking all over by the time the train pulled into the station, where Charles and his cum-supplying cock were waiting for her. They kissed polite out-in-public kisses, but her hands clutched at his clothes like a woman grabbing at a rope to prevent a terrible fall. Could he sense how she was struggling inside? On the walk through the parking lot, and in the car, he seemed clueless about her agitated state. In fact, the way he kept talking about so many pointless things, he probably wouldn't notice if she fingered herself the whole drive home. Couldn't he see that something was different, that she wasn't even close to being the same woman he'd spent the previous weekend with?

She half-listened as he recounted his morning handball match with a colleague, and the arrangements for the evening's cocktail party at the mansion. He was concerned about the catering, and whether the wine properly complimented the hors de oeuvres. She was concerned with getting a good gob of cum in her mouth as soon as possible. Did she have time to blow Charles before the party? It would be a really good idea to blow him the minute they got home.

Although why wait? It was Charles' cock that she had to become reacquainted with, and there it was, not three feet away. And she really did need some cum, it had been hours since she'd tasted any.

"Catherine! What are you..."

"I'm going to suck your cock, Charles," she replied, unzipping him.

"My what?"

"Mwuh wock," she replied, already drawing him into her mouth.

"Ah! Here? In traffic? Are you crazy?"

She came up for air just long enough to say, "Shut up and drive."

The idiot pushed her head away. He was afraid. Afraid of wrecking the car, afraid of being seen. Or maybe it was worse. Maybe he was afraid to explore what it would really mean for his wish to come true, of having a wife with one hell of an inner whore shining though.

It was so hard, but she waited. She shook inside, her legs wiggling back and forth under the dashboard. On the outside she smiled and nodded, acting out the sensible, contained role that he expected from her. But inside she was on sucking fucking fire, her colossal clit clamoring for attention, her mouth filled with lubricating saliva, her nipples engorged, every bump in the road sending shockwaves through her bouncing breasts. She felt like screaming every time she saw some obvious metaphor for her needs — a woman ordering a hot dog from a cart, a child blowing a bubble — but she held her desires in check for mile after excruciating mile, all the way to the mansion, all the way to the master bedroom.

Master. Bedroom. Oh God how she wanted to be in her master's bedroom! It wasn't here, it wasn't this bedroom... But still, an even greater flush of lust detonated inside, dropping her to her knees. Her hands frantically tore at Charles' zipper.

"Oh Catherine! Yes, yes, but I didn't shower at the health club. Give me ten minutes."

Her mouth twisted and it was all she could do to try to make it look like a smile. Inside, she thought she might spontaneously combust, one of those freaky unexplained occurrences of a person just vanishing from the earth in a sudden burst of super-heated fire. But somehow she held on, choking her emotions down. She had forgotten that sex with William always needed to be a clean affair. Spontaneous sweating grunting gasping screaming desperation-filled cum-slurping bodies were not allowed.

She thought about just furiously fingering herself and forgetting the whole thing, but another idea surfaced the moment she saw the phone by the bed. It was only four in the afternoon, he would be there. No. No, that would be so bad, and so contemptuous. Charles couldn't help it that he was a cautious man at heart, it wasn't his fault.

But her fiancé had already spoiled her mood. She felt as though she needed the taste of excitement almost as much as a fix of hot cum, and there was no excitement here in this room. There never had been.

She stripped out of her clothes and slipped her beautiful body into her wonderful new lingerie, her naughty idle fingers tweaking her hard nipples. Fuuuuuck, she was such a fucky lucky sexy woman, and so deserving of some extra spice in her lovemaking. Hot cum and spice, to make things reeeaaal nice...

The phone was in her hand, the number dialed, before she really knew it was happening. William was in a meeting, but Cindy put her call through anyway.

"I'm so happy you called!" William greeted her. "I wasn't sure... But listen, I'm with a group of designers right now. Let me..."

"I'm dying to suck your cock again, William."

"Uh... Good! Good! That's great news!"

"I feel like I could suck you at least ten times a day. In fact, I've been thinking about coming back to the magazine, just so I could walk into your office at times like this. I could spend my entire lunch hour under your desk."

"Uh... Wow! That's... really promising! We'll talk over those plans soon. But right now..."

"Oh," she shivered, the index finger of her free hand dabbing at her sopping entrance. "Oh God, I'm... playing with myself... thinking of you..."