Glow

Still in the afterglow of the orgasm, I sit up and pull my laptop towards me, wanting to capture this moment in its entirety even while my pussy still throbs.

Brooke inspired this morning’s session of self-love, with her post “Waiting”, and its imagery of a mouth as a tight, puckered asshole, opening only reluctantly to her Master’s cock.  But writing about it was inspired by a tease promise I made to a special friend, who tells me he enjoys reading/hearing about me touching myself, making myself come.

I wasn’t planning to masturbate this morning. In fact, I have been curiously asexual in a way, the last little while, while doing some heavy-duty processing.  Little sister, as I refer to my lovely cunt at times, has been lying dormant.

But brooke’s story caused a deep heat inside of me, and soon I was laying back in bed, my panties looped around one ankle, my fingers stroking my newly-shaved cunt lips, playing with my rings, dipping down into the wetness the story had inspired. Touching my rings made me recall being tied on my knees in the cage Saturday night, legs open, cunt and asshole bared for all to see. Displaying my new jewelry for the first time. And then, much later, on my knees again on a table, a leather belt wrapped tight around my upper thighs, while Ad applied clothespins to my back and arms, and  feeling one of our guest’s soft, female fingers ever-so-gently stroking the rings: someone else’s fingers, aside from the guys’ or my own, on them for the first time.

My fingers are sliding in and out of my cunt now, scooping the wetness onto my lips, bathing myself and the rings in my own juice as my hips start to move.

And I haven’t even touched my clit yet.  I withhold that moment from myself, enjoying just this sensation, this edge of desire, before I race to the summit.

When I finally give in, when  finally touch my clit, it is like an electric current has jolted me, and my hips jerk against my fingers of their own accord; a gasp escapes my lips.

Quiet now, quiet: I hear the children waking and moving about beyond my closed bedroom door.

As my fingers move, I think about that image, the tight, puckered mouth, the cock pushing into it, stretching it, the pop as it forces itself beyond that tight band of muscle, and another image from Saturday night comes to mind: a metal device in a lovely mouth, stretching it into an incredibly erotic, kewpie doll mouth, a delightful little bow that was made to push fingers…and more…into.

I arch now against my fingers, panting loudly, twisting and pushing as my fingers thrum over my clit and back down to my rings, wetting me.  I know the moment is here, and I want to hold back, but my last thought, that of knowing that I am going to sit up in moments and write this all down while I am still in the last moments of ecstasy, finally drives me over the edge. I rock against my fingers, bite my lips against the cry that wants to burst from me, moan and shudder as the orgasm floods me.

And then, still panting, I sit up and pull my laptop to me.

11 Comments

  1. That’s the beauty of reading erotica fiction or non. Though I think non can be more intense because it really happened to someone. Great post!! I’m might have to go to the same now ;) Kara XOXO

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