It’s not the smacks, pinches, or slaps that are hardest to bear, that make me cry out the most, that I instinctively pull away from. Well…not always.
Sometimes, it’s the barest touch of a fingertip. The silky stroke against my skin. The sweetest, loveliest kiss of flesh on flesh.
I burn. I need. I writhe.
My brain says, “You can’t handle this. It’s too much.” In response, my body weeps and oozes desire.
I’m stormy and turbulent. He’s…not.
He woke me up by pressing his warm body against my own. Instead of melting into him, I was on alert. He sucked my nipples. He stroked my cheek. He raised goosebumps in a trail down my skin.
I trembled. I quivered. I whimpered.
With only a hint of pressure, he rested his thumb on my clit, while his fingers sought out dark, silky crevices. I clutched his arm, burying my face against him.
I wanted. I needed. I begged.
“Come for me girl. Go ahead.”
All the while, he stroked his own cock. He watched and waited as I shuddered and melted. Knowing it wasn’t over, I watched in fascination as his hand moved up and down, so calm, so nonchalant.
Later, he would fuck me with the same deliberate movement and pace. All while I creamed and clenched, gasped and hissed, and begged him with hips that arched and a pussy that wept for more, more, more.
He’s the calm. I’m the storm.
Welcome to Masturbation Monday! This week’s prompt is right up my alley, and yet it wasn’t a smacked pussy that had me flailing – for once. Hopefully I’ve turned you on, but if you need more, you know where to go…