She leant over to me, her blouse tightening to reveal the contour of her perfect body and asked if I was speaking to her. She explained the Chinese owners and staff could not pronounce her name so they called her flower. As she stood next to me at the table I slowly passed my hand up the out side of her thigh in a gentle stroking action with one finger making a circling motion. She hesitated with what she was doing for a second and her face flushed ever so slightly. Immediately I thought I hade gone too far but she looked slowly down to me and gave a smile and a slight wink. She put her hand on the back of my neck sliding her fingers through the edge of my hair line. I was shaking with desire all I could think about was passionately kissing her and then lifting her onto the table right there to pleasure her the way she should be pleasured. The family party continued oblivious to the attraction we had between us but I was too shy to progress any further. My lack of confidence had won. She wasn't consciously masturbating. It was just a nervous habit, a response to the frustrations of racking her brain for answers and to the rising levels of hormones within her.If only I could have come last night... or this morning, she thought. But studying late into the night and waking late had precluded playing with her clit, coming, and relieving herself as she almost always did—had to do—at least daily to maintain her equilibrium.The test ended, and the girl hurried toward home, her pussy throbbing with need. Her vagina was flooded. She could feel her wetness on her panties. Her vulva was tumescent, her clit turgid. She envisioned the ridge of her hooded clit protruding from her labia, as she knew it was, and she envisioned the tip of her clit protruding from its hood, begging to be touched, rubbed, squeezed, and even abused. Her clit was so sensitive she knew it it would be torture to be rough with it, but sometimes she needed to punish her clit in the worst way to get off.
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