Denying Myself No More

After two lonely nights filled with no small amount of pouting and feeling sorry for myself, I denied myself no more.

I wanted a slow release. I wanted a powerful release. I wanted to drench myself.

Gently massaging, kneading my breast with one hand, the other slowly stroked my upper thighs.  Petting my pussy, I teased myself, refusing to dip in and press further.  Tweaking a nipple until I hissed, I finally inserted a finger and gasped at my own wetness.

I slowly, languidly stroked my labia, massaging my clit, feeling the moisture rise like a river.  Slowly, slowly, slowly.  A light sheen of sweat covered my trembling body.  How much more could I take?  The heat built gradually at first and then began to consume me.  My hips twitched; my toes curled; and still I stroked slowly, lazily.

Long minutes passed.  My body writhed. My back arched. My insistent finger stroked.

Sticky, molten liquid pooled underneath me.  I continued to tortuously love my clit, over and over again.  Finally, my back arched taut like a bow string. My pussy bloomed in my hand.  My body shook uncontrollably.  I forgot to breathe.

I found sweet release.

Smiling to myself, I feel asleep with the scent of myself filling the room.