Hands reach, searching for soft skin and delicate folds. Fingers spread as nails graze lightly along hidden paths.
Her back arches, heelings digging into the mattress beneath her. Limbs and blankets tangle as a battle rages in her veins.
Eyes closed, mouth open. Gasps, pants, and moans fill the empty space around her body.
Slick heat coats her thighs and her hands. Goosebumps race down her legs. Her nipples tighten, begging for attention.
She rocks and gyrates to a song of rushing blood, racing heart, and strumming fingertips. Her desire is an orchestra. She is the conductor.
Her hunger builds, an insatiable craving fills every pore. Release, please God, release.
Fingers fly, hands tremble, breasts jut, and knees spread wider. She is open and wanting, building to a crescendo she cannot anticipate.
Soft moans become squeaks become something more until she screams with her head thrown back, her mouth open wide.
As she comes back down to earth, falling effortlessly from her self-made bliss, she smiles. Following a brief intermission, the concert will continue.
Music, orgasms, masturbation, it all seemed to go together - at least in my mind. In the past week, there's been kinky fuckery, but it's been part of the healing process - and has become sacred, even though I tease John Brownstone that little is sacred when you love a writer. Thankfully, though, I've got new toys to try out and soon not-so-sacred kinky fuckery will reign supreme once more. In the meantime, you should go check out this week's batch smutty goodness for Masturbation Monday. I'm pretty sure someone is bring both the kinky and the fuckery this week.