Understimulated

The fog encircled me as I walked the short distance between the public library and the tiny strip mall, where I would have to wait for a ride after the library closed. The sun had set, and the dark city gave its blessing to the cold October breeze. I walked through every dark alley and underground parking lot, unafraid. The door to the mall was locked, so I tried to go around to the other side, wondering if it was a fluke. As I was circling the building, on a whim I decided to enter through the side door leading to the long hallway to the downstairs rest area of the mall. It was completely dark as I walked inside, and I felt my stomach plummet in immediate regret as the door closed behind me. I turned around to grab the handle, but when I finally found it in the dark, the door had already succumbed to its automatic locking mechanism.

I couldn’t see anything, so I got on my hands and knees to crawl through the rest of the hallway. It was still dark when I reached the end and my eyes hadn’t adjusted, so I continued to crawl and feel my way around until I felt the stairs. While I was stretched out as my upper body made it’s way up the first few steps, I felt a sharp pain in my fingers as though they had been stepped upon. I felt my throat compress, and struggled to breathe. I reasoned to myself that there must have been something dangling from the railing that caught onto my collar. I felt upwards for something catching, and a burning string coiled itself around my arm, down my wrist, and a puddle of heat pooled itself into my reaching palm.

All manner of spooky urban legends went through my mind as the burning and unknown liquid caused me to panic. But I felt something else. In the midst of all of this trepidation, I could feel my thong under my skirt moistening from the adrenaline and sensation reminiscent of a wax game that I played with myself while masturbating as a teenager. It pooled on my thighs just like the way that this substance pooled in my hand. When I panic, I don’t scream or move. I become still and analyze the situation until a course of action becomes clear, still save for my stomach which always tries to escape. I became very still on my hands and knees on that staircase, and as an experiment I held my hand up again. The same sensation went through it, and I smelled the liquid that pooled on my palm. I couldn’t identify it, but it was intoxicating, as though it was only waiting to creep into my nose and ignite my senses to it.

On impulse, I spread it across my face and traced my fingers along my lips and jaw. The sensation around my throat tightened, and what was before a discomfort became a threat. I reached for my neck and found fingers there. I then felt my skirt being lifted. I wanted to fight back, but focusing on getting air into my body was a bigger priority, and I could feel my muscles giving in to gravity. The pressure was released long enough for me to gasp for air, and then it was back. While gasping, i inhaled the scent of the liquid, and it made me happy. I stuck my ass out and accepted my fate. Burning coils wrapped around me and the thing which pushed my thong aside and penetrated my ass was cold and sent chills through me. I felt burning on my back, followed by itching and a sensation of openness. Still in my vulnerable position, the cold was replaced with warmth, and my body rose to the novelty.

Heat captured me and liquid poured onto me from above, creating a burning and a tightness around my entire body, like a second skin that had little needles in it. It put pressure onto me as I rocked myself back and forth to the fucking that I was receiving. In madness, in lust, in ecstacy, in fear I was rocking. Back and forth on the stairs, until all at once there was nothing behind me, and I fell backwards with my own force. Landing on my back, but not seriously harmed. I suddenly felt nothing, and in feeling nothing I became so under stimulated that I began to choke, slap and scratch myself as I threw my legs over each other and started grinding my hand. I could feel nothing on me, I could feel nothing in me, and my skirt was back in place. Whether my eyes were closed or open it did not matter. I saw only blackness, but the closer I came to the peak of the pleasure hidden in my fingers, the more the blackness mixed with little colored lights.

For the first time that night, I screamed as I felt the orgasm happen to me, and as I dug my nails as far as I could into my breast, and hit my head against the floor. When I screamed, I heard footsteps running through the building and stop at the top of the stairs. My eyes were flooded with light and I was blinded while they adjusted. “Holy shit.” said the Male voice of the security guard who had come running, frightened by my scream. He came down and crouched beside me. I could tell he was fighting between empathy and lust as he drank in the sight of my beaten body and disheveled clothing which no longer served a function. I stared at him moony eyed in my post orgasm fog, and placed his hand around my throat. His eyes looked startled and fearful, but I could tell that he was tempted to touch himself. Yes, I thought. I am made for touching, and I am made for touches.
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Any helpful suggestions to improve my writing or the story, and any constructive criticism is appreciated!

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticstories/comments/a5yykw/understimulated