Maya and The Hunger

[IsabellaRose]

Maya had named it when she was fifteen, not out loud, not to anyone, just in her own head, a private little word for a private little problem. She had to name it, because "horny" didn't cover it, "in the mood" was a joke, and "high libido" sounded like something a doctor would say while looking at a chart. None of those words captured the thing that showed up in her body without warning and refused to leave until she did something about it.

So she called it the hunger, because that's what it was.

It wasn't desire, exactly. Desire was a mood. Desire was something you could set aside for later. The hunger was a state. It sat low in her belly like a second heartbeat, and once it arrived, everything else in her life became background noise. Homework, conversation, the plot of whatever movie was playing, all of it dimmed, and the hunger stayed bright.

The first time she'd noticed it, she was fifteen and sitting in algebra class, and she'd spent the entire forty-five minutes pressing her thighs together under the desk because the friction was the only thing keeping her sane. She hadn't understood it then. She'd thought something was wrong with her. She'd gone home and touched herself properly for the first time in her life, deliberately, and afterward the hunger had gone quiet, and she'd felt normal for about six hours before it came back.

That was something she figured out early. It always came back.

It came in waves. Sometimes it was gentle, a low hum in the background, easy to ignore, easy to live with. Those were the good days, the days she could be a person. But sometimes it arrived sharp, all at once, like a switch flipping, and on those days she was useless. On those days she couldn't think, couldn't focus, couldn't do anything except count the minutes until she could get somewhere private and deal with it.

Tonight had been one of the slow ones, the kind that made her think she might be able to be productive.  Maya had been sitting at that table working on her essay for two hours, but now she was losing her mind.

It had started small. A little warmth between her thighs, the kind you could ignore if you had something to do. The essay was open on her laptop, the cursor blinking like a slow, mocking heartbeat, and her body had apparently decided that tonight was the night it would betray her. She shifted in her chair, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, shifted again.

Nothing helped. If anything, the friction of her thighs pressing together just made it worse, sending a dull, throbbing pulse up through her belly. She was wearing a thin cotton skirt and panties, no tights, just her and the fabric and the growing, gnawing hunger.

She glanced at the corner of the table. It was a cheap wooden table and chair set, but the table had a sharp right angle with a slightly rounded edge from years of use. It was just a table, innocent, unremarkable, and right at the perfect height.

Maya scooted her chair back and stood up. The first contact was almost accidental. She leaned in to "read" her screen, and the corner pressed gently against the front of her panties through the skirt. Her breath caught.

Oh.

She stayed there for a second, pretending to type. Then she rocked her hips forward, just barely, and the pressure dragged across her clit in a slow, delicious line. Her fingers froze over the keyboard. She did it again, a little harder, a little slower. The wood was unyielding and warm from her own body heat, and every small movement sent a spark straight up her spine. She bit her lip and looked around the room. It was empty, thank God, her roommate was out, and then she stopped pretending entirely. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands and started to move.

Forward, back, forward, back, a steady, rolling rhythm, her hips grinding down against the corner while her skirt bunched up around her thighs. The angle was perfect. The pressure was perfect. She could feel herself getting wet, and the friction turned from dry to smooth and back again as she worked herself against the hard edge. Her breath came faster. She let her head fall back.

It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman humping a piece of furniture like a teenager, and she didn't care, because it felt so good. The corner pressed exactly where she needed it, and every grind sent a jolt of pleasure through her, building, coiling, tightening low in her belly. She went faster and the table creaked loud enough that she didn't hear the front door. Her thighs started to tremble.

She thought about nothing, just the pressure, the rhythm, the wet heat between her legs and the hard corner of the table that was somehow, impossibly, about to make her come, and then it hit her. Her whole body seized up, her toes curling inside her socks, a sharp gasp tearing out of her throat as the orgasm rolled through her in waves. She ground down hard against the corner, riding it out, hips twitching, until the last shiver faded and she slumped forward over her laptop, panting. She mad enough noise that she didn't hear the footsteps in the hallway.

The cursor was still blinking. Maya stared at it for a long moment, then she sat up, smoothed her skirt, and looked down at the innocent little corner of the table.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."

She typed one word into the essay, then she leaned into the corner again. She had reached the point of no return. The essay was a lost cause. The cursor had been blinking at her for three hours, and in that time she had gone from "casually shifting in her chair" to "full-on grinding against the corner of the table with her skirt bunched up around her hips." She'd stopped caring about dignity somewhere around the second orgasm. Now she was chasing the third, and she was close, so close, her breath coming in short, sharp little gasps, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the desk. She didn't hear the soft oh my god from the doorway.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back. The table creaked in protest. She didn't hear it.

Her panties were soaked through and the corner of the table was warm and hard and perfect against her clit. She rolled her hips in a slow, filthy circle, chasing the angle, and a soft moan escaped her lips before she could stop it. That was when she did hear the voice.

"Are you... are you humping the table?"

Maya's eyes flew open.

Jake was standing in the doorway. Jake, her roommate's boyfriend. Jake, who had a key. Jake, who was supposed to be at work until six. Jake, who was now leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed and the biggest, dumbest grin on his face.

Maya froze mid-grind. Her hips were still pressed against the corner. Her skirt was still hiked up. Her face was flushed and her hair was a mess and she was so close that stopping felt like a physical punishment.

"I..." she started.

"You're humping the table," Jake said again, delighted. "You're literally humping the table right now."

"I'm not..." Maya began, but then her hips twitched, almost involuntarily, and the corner dragged against her clit and she let out a tiny, strangled squeak.

Jake's grin widened. "You're still doing it."

"I can't stop," Maya admitted, her voice thin. "I'm too close."

"Then don't stop."

She stared at him. He stared back. And then, because she had no other option, she started moving again, slowly at first, testing, their eyes locked. Then faster, because the pressure was still there and the pleasure was still building and Jake was just watching her, leaning in the doorway like he had front-row seats to the best show in town, and somehow that made it even hotter. His eyes tracked the roll of her hips, the bunch of her skirt, the way her mouth fell open when she found the right angle.

"Jesus," he said, still with that stupid grin.

Maya whimpered. She was past embarrassment now, past caring. She ground down hard against the corner, her whole body tensing, and the orgasm hit her like a wave, sharp and sudden and so good that she cried out, her hips jerking against the table as she rode it out. When she finally slumped forward, panting, Jake was still there, still grinning.

"So," he said. "I guess Sophie's not here...?"

Maya let her forehead thunk against the laptop. "Get out," she said quietly.

He didn't move.

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What happens next? YOU VOTE!!

• Leave unresolved tension - Maya runs off to hide in her bedroom or Jake leaves. (react HEART/LOVE to vote for this option)

• Get right into it - Jake or Maya make a move on the other. (react RAVE BLOB/WOO-HOO to vote for this option)

• Interrupt the scene - someone or something interrupts the moment before either of them can decide anything one way or the other. (react LAUGHING/HAHA to vote for this option)