Page 29 of Sextuplet and the City

Moving my legs makes the vibrations between them feel more intense, putting me at a real risk of having the first-ever on-the-go orgasm. And naturally, there’s a nice family with small children discussing the menu right in front of me.

It’s official. I’m masturbating around children, like a pedophile. What’s next, finger painting at a morgue? Testing the plumbing at a slaughterhouse?

Gritting my teeth, I ignore the sensations between my legs, avert my eyes from the children, and pick up my pace. Finally, I reach the ladies’ room and grab the doorknob like a lifeline.

The fucker doesn’t bulge.

I wrangle it, somewhat violently.

Nope.

I knock, definitely violently.

“Busy,” an annoyed female voice says from behind the door.

Skunk. I hop from foot to foot, desperately looking around.

A passing waiter glances my way with a concerned expression. He’s probably worried I’ll have explosive diarrhea, and he’ll have to clean it up.

My eyes fall on the men’s room.

Do I dare?

Yep. Desperate times and all that. I beeline for the door and reach for the handle.

Before my hand connects with its target, the door opens, nearly smashing into my face.

I stagger back.

A confused-looking older gentleman comes out, eyeing me like I might have rabies.

“It’s an emergency,” I pant. “Is anyone else in there?”

He looks affronted. “These are single-stall bathrooms.”

Nice. I just accused him of something weird. Good going. All that’s left to do is to moan like a porn star, and he’ll have a story too embarrassing to tell his grandchildren.

In my defense, I knew the women’s bathroom is for one person, but don’t dudes have a toilet and a urinal in there? That can service two people.

Muttering a weak “thanks,” I dash into the bathroom and close the door.

The foulest of smells hits my nostrils like a wrecking ball.

Eyes watering, I grab some paper from the dispenser and press it to my nose.

Nope. This isn’t any better. Now I smell stale paper, plus the unspeakable horror I was trying to mask.

Fine. Who needs to breathe anyway?

I lock the door. Then, still not breathing, I peel my jeans off.

The lack of oxygen seems to intensify the effect of the vibrating undies. Is this why people risk erotic asphyxiation? I have no idea, but my oxygen supply is getting lower by the second. Reluctantly, I let in a small breath. The last thing I want is to pass out here, in a men’s room with my jeans around my ankles and my panties vibrating at full speed.

Fuck me. The smell is even worse on this inhale. On the bright side, if I wanted to make that orgasm recede, mission accomplished.

Holding my breath once more, I scramble to get my panties off.

Finally.

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