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?