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.