Your slutty project partner

"Dammit, not that whore!" you hiss, seeing the name 'Marnie Robbins' on the display.

Marnie's a girl you very reluctantly paired up with for a project in one of your classes. In all likelihood she got into the university on a pity-scholarship, since she seems neither bright nor committed. In fact, you're certain that she's putting herself through school as either a stripper, porn star or a hooker. She just dresses that trashy.

The few times you've had to associate with her for the sake of the project you made sure to dress extra-respectably so that people wouldn't think you were a co-worker of hers. Of course, they might then have assumed you were her pimp, you think with an involuntary giggle. God that's evil of you, but it's so fun to make fun of the girl.

Now of course you remember that you've just sent her a full recording of you fucking a sleazy janitor, with him cumming on your face. God it better be just audio, you can pretend it was something you saw on the internet and sent to her for some godforsaken reason you can think of later.

Using your one free hand you try to find something to hold onto so you can pull yourself up, but everything you touch seems to be covered with oil. It isn't until you've tried several times to pull yourself up that you realize a couple of things.

One, the shelves aren't covered with oil, it's your hand.

Two, the slight lift and fall of your body has your super-charged pussy rubbing up and down your right-arm, which is wedged between your body and the bucket. The hand's starting to fall asleep, but your pussy certainly isn't. That bastard slimeball had you on the verge of a second monster orgasm when he pulled out to shoot on your face. The bastard! Now you find that your pussy hasn't forgotten its arousal and is dead-set on getting itself off.

But you've never masturbated before. Never. And you're not going to start a disgusting habit like that now. So you're going to ignore the ache and keep trying to pull yourself out. Besides, it's not masturbating when your fingers aren't diddling you.

You continue to fumble around, grabbing one oil-slick surface after another to pull yourself up a little before mysteriously losing your grip. It happens again and again, but you optimistically press on, faster and faster as your pussy gets wetter and wetter, and your arm more and more slick with your own juices. You even feel your fingers start to come back to life a little as the movement stirs the blood.

Experimentally you wiggle your fingers, finding them pressed up against your slobbering pussylips.

'Oh dammit, they touched my clit,' you think. 'Oh! Again! Oh that's so unfortunate, they're scratching against me there. Yes... pull up... shoot, fell again. Try, wait, wiggle. Yes, they're coming back to life.... coming.... cumming!'

Gritting your teeth you squeal, hips bucking furiously within the constraints of the smelly bucket. As the orgasm crashes over you again and again, your head flung back in delight. Your back arches, your pelvis rubbing upwards against your arm, half-numb fingers jammed halfway into your sodden opening as your thrashing lifts your butt out of the mop bucket that had entrapped you.

At long last the orgasm starts to recede, and your whimpering to diminish, and you realize that you've lifted yourself clear of the bucket.

'Oh thank God,' you think, adding smugly, 'Good thing I didn't give in and masturbate, I'd never have gotten out of this horrible thing.'