One finger, one fingertip. The small tender pad of flesh on a fingertip. This is my torture device.
This innocent bit of flesh causes fire to course through my veins. This little tip makes my hips lift into empty air and my back arch.
Round and round, my fingertip swirls around the sensitive bud, unceasing, methodically, slowly. One hand grips the blankets, squeezing tight as I feel my clit begin to swell under my hand. When the sensation becomes too much, my fingers find my soaked lips, dipping in quickly, catching my breath.
Too soon, yet not soon enough, the same fingertip migrates back to my swollen pink nub. Round and round, again, one pad of flesh meets another. Sparks fly through my body. My legs stiffen. My head thrashes against the pillows. I’m on fire; I’m melting.
I look at the clock. This same, unceasing touch has lasted for minute after minute. In a frenzy of need, my hand wants to rush the torture device attacking my clit. Round and round, no stopping, rhythmic, patient, I stoke the fire burning deep inside. Crying into the dark, empty room, my need becomes all-consuming. I must have release, but I must keep going.
I feel the pressure build to a boiling point, a dam bursts within my body, unleashing a torrent of pleasure. The force of my orgasm rips through my limbs. My body, wracked with agonizing pleasure, bends and folds in on itself. Thrown onto my side, my finger firmly planted on my throbbing clit, aftershocks roll through my body in waves. Each aftershock slams into me, causing my pussy and stomach to clench simultaneously. Thick, creamy cum oozes out of my cunt and down my ass and thighs.
My soft tongue wraps itself around my finger, lapping up the evidence of my pleasure. I smile to myself in wonder at how such a small thing can cause such sweet torture.