Taste

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The late-summer mid-afternoon sun streaks through my window and caresses my skin until I stir drowsily awake, the warm rays exacerbating the throbbing pulse between my legs, provoking me to reluctant vivication.  I am not awake but no longer asleep; tranced consciousness is the only state I know in this moment, and – abandoning all pretense of thought – I allow my atavistic dazed need to guide my actions.

In one heartbeat I peel my shorts down over my hips, and in the next I plunge my fingers – two, then three… stretching, pressing, scissoring – into my soft, slick, velvet depths.  I do not bother to count the seconds; time is measured in the barest of breaths, and then I am shivering, shaking, convulsing with pleasure as my sweet wet walls contract and clamp around the penetrating digits.

When the last troy of gratification has been wrung from my hot slick pussy, I examine my fingers with a sleepy smile, naughtily delighted by my sensual afternoon of self-indulgence.  Honeyed cream coats each one to the third knuckle.

Sated for the moment, I bring the padded tips to my lips as I start to drift, and impishly I wonder…

Would you like to know how I taste?

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  1. Pingback: Not everyone “falls” in love | D i a r y I n c a r n a t e

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