I'll find a way

July 24, 2021

Dear Diary,

The girls left this morning, and I’m a wreck—aching, throbbing, leaking like never before. All that edging yesterday, hours of it, over and over, left my cunt screaming—raw, ****, dripping down my thighs. It’s the worst it’s ever been, this sexual frustration, like a knot I can’t untie, but God, it feels so good. Bad and good, twisting me up inside. I was sticky everywhere—sweat, spit, their mess and mine, coating me like a second skin. My hair was a bird’s nest, matted, clinging to my face, and the white ASICS was plastered to me, soaked through. Hated peeling it off—felt like losing a part of me—but I had to shower, had to clean up.

In the bathroom, I tried. Hot water, steam, but the showerhead called me. Aimed it low, just a quick pulse—edged myself again, sharp and fast, legs shaking. Wanted to cum so bad, but I stopped—gritted my teeth, held back. That gooning thing Mia talked about, it’s in me now—I can’t let go yet. Dried off, did my hair, made myself pretty—soft curls, lip gloss, like I’m normal again. Walked through the house, and there they were—the swimsuits they left behind. Jess’s black one, Mia’s too, and Tara’s blue Pengu, folded with a note: “For you, Goonette.” All sticky, smelly, crusted with their fluids—sweat, spit, squirt. Didn’t think—just grabbed them, rubbed each one on my face, slow, deep breaths pulling in their scents. Sharp, musky, filthy. I won’t wash them. Won’t wear them long either—not to the pool, not for hours—just quick slips into their skin, their stink, when I need it.

Need more, though. OnlyFans hasn’t paid out—rent’s looming, cash is tight. Can’t hit the department store, not now. So I browsed online—some second-hand marketplace, and oh my God, Diary, it’s a goldmine. Worn one-piece swimsuits everywhere—some pristine, some trashed. Bid on two: a purple Speedo racerback, faded and stretched, and a color-striped Arena with narrow straps, threadbare at the edges. Both dirt cheap, both with the inner lining ripped out. That detail—why? More skin, more rub, more feel? My mind’s racing. Seller’s across town—can pick up tonight. Already itching for them.

Hand-washed the white ASICS after—dunked it in the sink, fingers sliding over the spandex, slick and smooth. Got me going again—pussy leaked, juice running down my legs, pooling on the floor. Hung it to dry, dangling in the kitchen, and I can’t stop staring. It’s so pretty, so mine, this wet secret swaying there, turning me on every time I pass. But I had to leave it—dressed for the day, no swimsuit. Tiny panties, barely there, and—thanks, Tara—nylon tights, sheer and slippery. No bra, just a summer dress, light and flowy. Without the swimsuit, I feel covered but naked—opposite of that tight spandex grip that makes me naked yet covered. Yearned for it all day, this hollow ache.

Uni was dull—lectures dragging, notes I didn’t take. Groceries were worse—pushing a cart, mundane as hell, tights rubbing me with every step, reminding me what I’m missing. Felt off, exposed in a way I hate, craving that hug, that rub. Tonight, I’ll grab those swimsuits—purple Speedo, striped Arena—hold them, smell them, maybe slip them on just once. Rent’s still a problem, but this? This I can do. Night, Diary—off to chase my fix.