The Diaries of Syra Bond

I would recognise again that figure on the balcony by his garish shirt and his shock of black hair, but once I had seen him I always recognised him the same way I know my own fingers and pussy. Did it matter that I spread my thighs wide that afternoon and pulled the edges of my white panties away from my sex? Of course it did. I know I should never have leaned back and stiffened my legs and brought them together as I pulled my panties down around my thighs. I should never have twisted the material into a thin, cutting rope and rolled it slowly across the tops of my thighs as though binding myself. I should not have moaned so loudly as the heat of the sun against my perspiring skin made my labia swell and throb against my fingertips. I should not have opened my mouth as I felt the surge of tension making me stretch my toes out in an uncontrollable spasm and forcing my ankles out so straight they ached. I should never have lifted my hips as high as I could so the man on the balcony could clearly see the blooming lips of my vulva responding to his scrutiny.
But I did.
I opened myself to him; I showed him my pussy in all its glory while sitting in that sunlit garden as though it was just another innocent flower. I showed him how I brought myself close to orgasm and then held back so I could start all over again, writhing on the chair as I teased myself, holding on to those moments of delectable anticipation. Then, when I finally let go, I stretched myself out for him, my whole body jerking and quivering while I looked up at him as though it was he driving me past the brink.