When I touch myself I imagine the most awful things. Things I would never want in reality. As I touch my thoughts become more disjointed, more extreme and more divorced from reality yet they follow a familiar well worn path.
I imagine myself a slave at some medieval banquet my body barely covered by a humiliating garment that makes my status and availability clear. Thin straps and patches of stained leather smelling of sweat and sex.
The only reason I am dressed at all is for the pleasure of undressing me. The loincloth of my costume is a ragged leather flap scarcely covering my mound. No barrier to curious hands.
In my fantasy I am always slick and wet and ready and in reality when I have these fantasies my hands ensure my body matches the fantasy.
I stand holding a serving tray in my shaking grip while a stranger reaches up between my legs, up to the hot vulnerable flesh of my cunt. The man touching me is not even looking at me. He talks to his friends ignoring me even while his fingers are inside me.