An old friend

Linda squirmed in the frame of the dog door, her shoulders jammed tight on the inside, her ass and cunt hanging bare in the open air. The breeze teased her slit, raising goosebumps along her thighs, making her clit twitch despite the humiliation boiling in her chest. She pushed again, grunting, but there was no movement, her tits were too big to get through the hole she was stuck, helpless, exposed.

Beyond her own breathing she heard noise from behind her, the sound of shoes on gravel.

“Linda?”

The voice was clipped, proper, a little sharp. Linda froze. She knew that tone anywhere.

Tilda.

Her neighbour and long time friend, headmistress of the local school. Stern, faced, brown curly hair pinned in its usual bun.

Linda’s blood ran cold. Of all the people to find her like this…

“Oh God, Tilda, I—” Linda tried to turn, but the frame bit into her shoulders. She was stuck like a trussed-up hog, arse in the air, thighs spread, cunt glistening in the sunlight.

Tilda didn’t answer. Not at first. She stepped closer, her polished shoes crunching on the gravel, her shadow falling right across Linda’s exposed flesh. Linda felt the heat of her gaze crawling over her backside, her slit, the neat dark strip above her mound.

“Linda,” Tilda said at last, voice low, almost musing. “What a position you’ve managed to get yourself into.”

“I didn’t mean— the wind— the door locked—” Linda babbled, her cheeks burning hotter than the sun on her bare skin.

Tilda crouched, knees creaking softly in her skirt. Linda felt it, the unmistakable pressure of a fingertip pressing against her slit.

She gasped, body jerking against the frame. “Tilda!”

The finger didn’t stop. It slid lower, firm, deliberate, finding the slick seam of her cunt and pushing in. Not gentle, not hesitant. A teacher’s finger, confident and unyielding, slipping past her lips into the wet heat inside.

Linda whimpered, thighs trembling, her pussy clutching tight around the intruder. She was shocked, mortified and shamefully wet.

Tilda didn’t speak. Just pushed a little deeper, testing, then drew back, her fingertip glistening. She examined it briefly, then stood with a quiet huff.

“Forty-three years old,” Tilda muttered, her tone somewhere between irritation and admiration, “and still tight as a bloody vice.”

Her shoes clicked against the path as she turned away, walking briskly back down the garden, leaving Linda stuck and throbbing, cunt clenching helplessly in the empty air.

Linda’s mouth opened, words failing her. She panted softly, the ghost of that firm finger still inside her.

Alone again, naked and trapped, she hoped that Tilda would be back soon, she was wrong.