November 5

Dear Diary, 

My quote of the day: "Without risk, there is no reward." In my case — the reward is a quivering pussy.  

The "Grand Opening" sign, proudly displayed in front of the inviting new storefront, draws me in like a heroin-filled needle to an addict's hungry veins. 

As soon as I enter the store, my pulse races at the possibilities. Several shoppers cast eyes my way, but their glances are fleeting, and that just won't do. It isn't enough to acquire second looks. No. My arousal is fed by sustained contact — players in my little game. 

I’m disappointed in the store help — millennials locked onto their phones rather than doing their job. Whatever nonsense is occurring on their tiny screen is more important than the merch I’m about to steal. No, this won't do at all. I need to work harder to attract attention. Without it… well… the risk simply isn't significant enough. 

I walk toward the display near the well-dressed man behind the counter. His badge says, "Robert." The owner, perhaps? Even better if my pawn is invested in the store. 

"May I help you, ma'am?" asks Robert.

"No, thank you, Sir.” I smile, adding, “I can help myself.”  

My hands sift through the bracelets while I keep an eye on Robert and the shoppers nearby. As anticipation grows, my hand lifts some bracelets and balls them up in my palm. What a rush! My other hand casually grazes my mound, stirring my clit even more. 

"They're pretty, aren't they?"  

I jump at the question of the shopper who had snuck up on me. My breath’s caught in my throat while I ponder walking off with my fistful of merch, but I decide against it this time and return the bracelets to their place, answering, "Yes. Yes, they are." I lock eyes with her, searching her face for some hint of awareness while my body’s heat settles in my netherlands from the excitement. I’m disappointed when she walks off without giving me another thought. 

Robert glances up at me again, so I lean slightly forward, facing him and fanning the fabric of my tank dress against my voluminous tits. While his mouth waters at the free peek of my peaks, my heart thumps wildly in my chest, only topped by my throbbing clit. Beads of sweat surface between my heated thighs while I move to fiddle with earrings displayed on the same counter Robert stands behind. While his eyes watch my nipples poke my thin top, my fingers drop a nice pair of earrings inside my Prada bag. I momentarily shiver as adrenaline releases, and my pussy drips with the risk just taken. Did he see me? Am I caught? His smile answers my question. No, I'm still undetected — just a pretty new customer innocently browsing. 

Why do I do this? Take unnecessary risks? Well… to date, no man has generated the same level of sexual energy now running rampant through my veins. It’s that indescribable high that I can’t live without. And so, week after week, I risk detection — and even my personal freedom — to steal. 

With practiced skill and a little luck, I swipe a few more items, evade detection, and casually exit the store. Those first few steps out the door always threaten to push my pussy over the edge. One time, I caved to my arousal and sought release in a filthy alley by the store, not caring a homeless man bore witness to my lewd act. This time, although difficult not to race to the car, I force myself to maintain control, intent on dragging out my sexual release. Inside the car, I grip the steering wheel with both hands for most of the short drive home. At one stop light, though, I indulge the ache between my legs and strum my clit a bit, but I don't take it too far. I’m determined to draw out this pleasure. 

Once inside my posh home, I uncaringly cast the pilfered items aside. No, I don't need the items I stole; my plump bank account affords me anything I want. Stealing isn't about that for me — it's all about sex and the electricity that courses through my crotch. 

I can't wait to get myself off and race to the bedroom, where I strip down to my panties, throw back the silk comforter, and slip underneath the sheets. I roll around on the satin sheets, exploring my entire body with my hands, while I settle into my desired position. 

Finally, succumbing to my need, I release grateful sighs. 

Knowing nipple play sends electric jolts to my crotch, I roll my nipples in my fingers and tug them to hardness. I love the way my normally alabaster breasts pinken when I’m horny. Sometimes, I masturbate with my mirror to get a better view of my body’s responses. 

I’ve waited long enough and can’t resist the call between my legs, I slide a hand down my toned tummy. My silk panties, dampened while shopping, had nestled inside my intimate folds in such an erotic way that I enjoy peeling the fabric from my crevices before sliding them off my body. 

My exploring fingers smear the wetness around the lips of my pussy, then dip a finger inside. I am gentle at first, then start my mental replay of "shopping," and another finger joins in the fun. Then another. I find that three fingers stuff my cunt just right.

Arousal runs parallel to the adrenaline pumping again as I place myself back in those audacious moments in the store. With each item plucked from my memory, my sticky fingers fuck my pussy harder and deeper. 

My rapid heartbeat travels between my legs, thumping in my clit. When my fingers are no longer enough, I replace them with a dildo. 

Legs spread, knees bend, and back arches while I test the bed springs, meeting each thrust of the dildo with a thrust of my hips. 

Beads of sweat pepper my skin as my legs begin their tell-tale quiver. 

My starving puffy clit has waited impatiently, so my thumb stretches to meet its need. I erupt in an orgasm that curls all ten of my toes.

~oOo~

Fuck! I drop her diary as I try to catch my spurting semen with both hands so as not to stain her comforter. I always masturbate as I read her words. 

Honestly, voyeurism is my most potent fetish, but kleptophilia also courses through my veins, which, I guess, is what drew me to her — "Birds of a fetish feather…" — or something like that. 

When I first spied her swiping fugly yellow nail polish with her perfectly manicured red-painted nails, I knew her dirty little secret and followed her home. 

I watched her for a while — her admirer in the shadows — until I learned her habits. When she vacates her home for bi-weekly yoga, I let myself in. Every woman hides her most cherished belongings inside her nightstand, right? And that's where I found her diary… among other things. Reading about her stealing — and mostly how it sexually satisfies her — sates some sexual needs of my own. However, I’m starting to feel a need for more from her.  

After cleaning up my cum, I place the diary back in her drawer. I always put her things back. Well, except for her red lace panties — she still hunts for those.