As Sabah reached orgasm, she clenched her thighs together. It was her habit, she always did it. The motion pressed her fingers against her clitoris, making the sensation on the little organ all the more intense, and allowing her to feel, its throbbing; she believed the clenched thighs increased her vulva’s contractions too. She threw her head back, and let out something between a moan and a scream. Throwing her head hack had led to it resting on the picnic blanket she was lying on, and she left it there as she turned to a microphone on a small stand, only a few inches tall, that was perfectly positioned to capture the subvocal sounds she made when lying on the ground masturbating, and coming. She exhaled, letting out the last of the orgasm, and removing the expensive pink vibrator from inside her
Facing the microphone, she took in a breath, but laughed a giddy laugh instead of saying anything. Taking a moment to compose herself she relaxed. This was her show, and she could take all the dead air she needed. It was about a minute before she spoke again, though she made sure to breathe loudly so that listeners would know she was still there during the silence. When she was ready to speak, still lying her head on ground, she spoke into the microphone and said “…And that was a sneaky masty just within the perimeter fence of the five eyes security intelligence facility on Mt. Makaraka… Oooh, and it was a good one too” she said seductively.” so, if anyone says you can’t sneak into a secret spy base and masturbate, I have just proved them wrong” Sabah clicked off the record button on the cassette recorder, that had been recording her, as she mulled the phrase she’d used to sign off that recording… It was awkward, but she knew her fans knew english was her second language. They’d forgive her.
Now that the fog of orgasm had lifted, Sabah all of a sudden became very aware of her surroundings. Even in the hot summer night, the top of a mountain was cold with no clothes on – and she had no clothes on. The first garment she put on was a flannel shirt, she left it at that one garment, and left the front open; it hung loose, conforming to the curves of her belly and breasts. She began Casibom packing up her gear. The microphone was connected to a cassette recorder that she bought at goodwill; it must have been previously been owned by a house painter, as it was flecked with white paint – Sabah considered it a thing of beauty for this. She used it not because it was good, but because it was beautiful – an accidental jackson pollock. She disconnected the microphone and stand, and placed them in a knapsack, out of which she took a box of tissues. She pulled out two tissues to wipe off the wetness from her pussy, that was starting to run down her thighs and cool. She also wiped down the vibrator. She discarded the tissues on the ground – her calling card – and pulled on a pair of hipster jeans that were weighed down by a walkman clipped to a belt loop. She rolled up the picnic blanket, that had lying on it the vibrator, and a tube of lube, placed them in the knapsack, zipped, it up, did up the buttons on her flannel shirt, before crawling under the gap in the fence, that she’d used to gain access to the facility in the first place.
As she began her trek down the mountain, she reached into the knapsack, and took out the cassette from the cassette recorder, and placed it in the walkman, she rewound it back to the start, and pressed play.
“The five eyes facility doesn’t officially exist”, she heard herself say, “Yet here I am… The Mt Makaraka facility provides material and intelligence support to combatants in foreign wars. Wars that out citizens do not support. Therefore, it is my intention to bring public attention to this”. Sabah cringed at the prosaic nature of her pronouncement, but there was one good thing she heard in the recording… The wind… Sabah uses cheap equipment for a reason. The uninsulated microphone picks up every gust of wind. No one can say she was not at least outdoors.
As expected, the next sound caught on tape was a zip coming down. At that point, she was holding the microphone in one hand, while, using both hands to, unzip her jeans – the mic caught the sound perfectly. The next sound was the shuffle of her tight jeans coming down, and after that was the ruffle Casibom Giriş of her flannel shirt coming down. She remembered with fondness that at this, point in the recording, she was standing stark naked in the temperate night air.
Before beginning the recording, she had laid, down the picnic blanket, and taken off her hiking boots. She’d once been the subject of a photoshoot about her unique notoriety. In the photos, she was pictured wearing nothing but her hiking boots and a mask to hide her identity, but all she could think of during the shoot was the impracticality of it. To masturbate in hiking boots, she’d have to take them off to get her pants off, and then put them back on again. It all seemed very silly.
Her boots were weighing down the picnic blanket, should an errant gust of wind blow it away… But soon that would not be a problem. She lay down on the picnic blanket. On the recording Sabah heard the crinkle and rustle of the blanket as it took her weight. Lying on her back, she opened her legs, and began gently rubbing her clitoris, while every so often extending a finger to tease the opening. Listening to the recording she became giddy with excitement and more than a little wet, as she reheard her first carnal groan of the evening.
It all started three years ago. Sabah was an exhibitionist. She wanted more than anything for another human being to become overcome with lust at the sight of her. She had had three boyfriends in her life, all indifferent lovers. She attributed this to her weight, she was fat. Her face was also chubby and pockmarked with acne scarring, and her hair, despite being gloriously, long and thick, produced unnatural amounts of oil. In the absence of a flesh and blood partner to tell her what she needed to hear – that she was beautiful, she turned to the internet. There are websites where people can upload naked photos of themselves, and that she did. But the photos were ignored, when they weren’t being attacked.
So Sabah thought of the three indifferent lovers, and about how each one had failed to deliver an orgasm that she could competently give herself. The ones that she gave herself were magnificent. She knew Casibom Yeni Giriş her body. She could come quickly or slowly, intensely or softly, depending on her mood. She was a master of self pleasure.
So what had urged her to post those photos? And was the need to do that really satiated by self love? No, she was an exhibitionist, she needed the love and attention of others. In addition to this,the world is awfully cruel to women who wear their sexuality on their sleeves, and Sabah needed feel the rush of gambling with society’s slut-shaming wrath.
There was a cemetery next door to where she lived. The next night, in the dead of night, she scaled the cemetery fence in her pajamas, found the grave of a man who had died just under a hundred years ago, disrobed, and gave herself multiple orgasms.
But she still had one hill to climb, the internet. She needed internet validation. She needed to sexually excite strangers all over the world. If she were selling the night in the cemetery, what selling point would she use? At each orgasm, she had been surprised by the sounds she made – the gasps, the screams, the moans, groans through gritted teeth; that’s what she needed people to hear.
Of course, she could make these recordings in her own bedroom, and post them anonymously. She still needed the risk. So the next night she returned to the cemetery, with an app on her cellphone for recording sounds. She built a website to host the recordings, and gained quite a following.
When she returned home, she retrieved took walkman, connected it to the audio-in port on her computer, and began converting the analog recording of her masturbation to a digital one, so that it could be uploaded to the net. Beyond the beauty of the device, there was another reason she liked the cassette recorder. That signature hiss on the recording spoke to, its imperfect mechanical nature. Digital recordings are transparent, digital devices deliver data frictionlessly – an objective truth – a window to the event; whereas the cassette is an intermediary, it reports its own distorted version of events. The cassette was her partner in masturbation, her voyeur, who reported to the world just what a hot fuck she was.
After making the digital audio file from the cassette, she wrote on the cassette, the date of the masturbation at the spy base, placed in in one of a number of custom frames she had had made, and mounted it on the wall.