Cold air rushes over poorly refolded newspapers, stacked messily on the kitchen table. The stack rustles as the door slams shut, and again as she tosses the morning paper–only retrieved at 6pm–onto the table.
She takes her time, slumping into her bedroom, flinging her work pumps into the corner, leaving her s9lacks and sweater hung over the foot of her bed as she pulls on her fuzzy pink sweatshirt and well-worn yoga pants. Thick, mismatched socks help thaw her toes as she wanders into the kitchen, flipping on the electric kettle and preparing her tea.
Satisfied, de-stressed, she pulls a mechanical pencil and eraser from the can on her counter, sits at the table, and pulls her legs under her. And pulls her hood up over her head, for good measure, after adjusting her now-staticky hair into a loose bun.
After clicking the pencil a few times and doing the thing she always does where she pricks her finger with the lead just to make sure it’s secure, she unsheathes the newspaper.
The smell of newsprint awakens her sensitivities, and the stack of papers in her peripheral vision arouse the memories of weeks of ritual, which she pushes aside in her head.
A sip of tea, and she leafs through the paper until she finds the puzzle section.
Her eyes drift over the crossword, the jumble, the ads before settling on her prize: sudoku.
Nine squares by nine squares beckon her, and she feels her body stirring, responding, in that vague aroused way she gets when she’s on the periphery of sexual thoughts, when she knows what she’s thinking about but doesn’t quite want to go there.
Instead, she focuses on the numbers, the blanks, the ranks and files and orders arranging themselves before her.
Clicking her pencil again, pricking her finger again, she starts with the bottom left corner: nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.
Recited again as she realizes that she didn’t actually catch which numbers were there and which were missing. Her next countdown is cut off by the absence of a 9, and her eyes automatically scan the lines above and left. She eliminates one space, another, a third, and fills in the 9. The rush of success brings a smile to her face and the faintest tingle down her back.
The 8 and 7 are filled–filled–so she moves on to the 6. Scanning up and across. Two options, but she hates the messy way that candidate numbers take up space, so she moves on with blank spaces. But has to remind herself where she is so she counts in her head: nine eight seven six five. Counting down to get to what she needs.
It takes her moments of scanning up and down, of noting all the empty spaces, before she realizes that five is filled, and she laughs at how hard she can make it for herself sometimes. It should get easier as she goes, and yet, the longer she goes…
She brushes the thought aside, moving on to the filled four, three, and the empty two, the two she needs to fill, she needs to think to fill, she scans back and forth but can’t still fill the… the one is filled. Good. Right.
She takes a sip of tea, feeling the need for caffeine to pick up her brainspeed a little bit. She loves her puzzle, it’s so good to finish it, but at the end of the day it can be a little–taxing. Another sip before she moves to the next box, above, and counts down again: nine eight seven six five four three two one, but which ones are empty? Right, she thinks, the nine is empty. She needs to fill it. She needs to think.
Of course, she realizes that this kind of thinking is hard, and as her eyes scan back and forth across and up and down, she remembers that thinking about thinking makes thinking harder and so–oh, she realizes, the nine goes there. She needs to fill the emptiness with 9. It feels so good to feel the emptiness with nine, to fill the blankness to–right, count down, nine, eight.
Eight is filled, seven is filled, it’s so easy to–six is blank. Six is blank, and it’s getting harder to think, and her eyes flick to the end of the row and back several times before she realizes that she hasn’t read a single number, so she goes back carefully and counts down, nine, eight, seven… it’s getting harder to think, she thinks, and this is compounded by noticing that as her thinking gets harder, she’s getting –
Oh, six goes in that upper box, she realizes, and the rush of pleasure washes over her as she fills the emptiness with the number, filling her emptiness with numbers, counting down again, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three all filled but two.
Two is empty, so empty, and her eyes automatically check each row, like a computer scanner, back and forth automatically, as the movement gets easier but the thinking gets harder and as she gets harder and fills in two as her hardness fills her pants as her thinking fills her–her–
She notices the final empty spot and cascades into distraction, erection, with the slight mark of her simple, single line. One. So complete. So filled.
And she sees she can empty her mind even more to fill the boxes, returning to the previous box and filling the final two squares, emptying her thinking into the boxes, locked away, just filling the boxes, completing– she feels the wetness, the dripping of her tip into the cloth as she comes down from the perfection of a filled box.
Back up the row, back up the boxes to the top, and begins her countdown, nine eight seven… back to the beginning, searching across and down… down the column to find the nine to fill the box and–
Harder, it’s getting harder, and she doesn’t know if it’s her thoughts or her, but something is getting harder and it’s harder when she thinks about thinking and how–
She barely notices the low groan that shivers out of her mouth.
Unable to think enough to find the nine, she continues down, nine, eight, blank. Scanning, thinking, barely thinking, finding and filling the eig–
She gasps out as she feels herself dripping with every filling, every thought leaking out into her pants, every drop taking more thoughts as she gets harder and it’s harder to think about
Seven. Filled. Six. Filled. Counting down nine eight seven six five blank. So blank, find the five, fill the five, drip out, dropping down, getting harder, feeling harder, counting down, dropping down, filling empty, feeling empty, thoughts filling the empty, blank,
Four, three two one nine eight seven six five four three two one three two one filled, drip, drop, hard, empty filled.
So filled.
So empty.
So hard.
Just dripping.
Dropping.
——————————————
…
…
… nine
… nine
… nine
… nine
………. eight nine
………. seven eight nine
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine
Her body weakened and limp, like she’s just run and used all her blood sugar, she examines her work. She looks down at the boxes, perfectly filled, every last one of them, up to nine.
Her tea is cold, her pants all but soaking, she leans back in her chair and sighs, smiling.
The paper, with drool marks at the bottom, joins the stack, as she stretches long and hums to herself happily.
This is so great! It’s really really hot and sexy and hypnotic, and the fact that it features a woman with a dick is just the icing on the cake, especially for me personally! Please share, I want everyone to see this <3
Omg I love this, and I love the self induction, and I love the casual fact that she has a dick like me, and and and
