HappyComeLucky

Filth is one of those words that is all about the context. In the wrong context, it jars and makes me uncomfortable. In the right context, it goes straight to my lust, turning me on and making my cunt twitch. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that I love the lustful greed of a moment of pure filth.

I love the urgency of a filthy moment. The lack of decorum, the disregard of propriety, the feeling of giving into a hunger that shows no respect for patience and circumstance. Those filthy moments are physical and primal. Every filthy moment should leave its mark on my body, a sign of my sluttery, a tell-tale to those who know.

My body still responds, tingling with arousal when I remember these times later. Reliving those moment is enough to bring me to the edge, just a touch needed to make me come.

This morning, just seeing the dress I was wearing, now innocently hanging on the clothes rail, was enough to flood my body with lust. Last time I wore it, I got dressed to go out. The short dress, the knee high boots, my hair and make-up done. The bra and panties underneath completed the look. Then, without enough time before we had to leave, I was bent over, dressed pulled up, panties to the side and his cock plunging deep into me, filling me, making me growl. The rest of the world disappeared. My desperation for each thrust to push deep inside me was everything. I cried out as he stopped. I wanted more. I needed more. I was pulsing, soaking and throbbing.  He smiled as he made me go out like that, my thighs and underwear slick with my arousal.

For that whole evening, I wondered if the others could tell, if they knew, if they could smell my arousal every time I had to move along the bench seats. Suddenly my short dress seemed an inadequate cover of the evidence of the filthy slut that I can be.

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