Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
But in the next instant, before she can even catch her breath, she's coming undone all over again.
A second orgasm crashes through her, harder than the first.
After watching her for six long months—watching her in the privacy of her studio apartment, watching her masturbate at least once a day, sometimes three or four times if she's writing something she's really into, something particularly dark or depraved that turns her on—I genuinely thought I'd seen everything.
I thought I'd catalogued every possible variation, every subtle difference in how this woman could climax. I'd watched her use her fingers, watched her grind against pillows, watched her bite her lip to stay quiet even though she was completely alone.
But she's never, ever done this before.
She's never come so hard that her entire body shook like this, never lost control so completely that she couldn't even form words.
I pump my finer and pen into her again, harder this time, curling deep and pressing with deliberate precision. I lean into the motion, using my body weight, shifting my position so I can wedge myself properly between her spread thighs. My shoulder presses against the inside of her left knee, keeping her legs forced wide apart even as her muscles tremble and try instinctively to close, to protect herself from the overwhelming intensity of what I'm doing to her.
She squirts.
Clear liquid suddenly gushes from her pussy in a hot, forceful stream. It coats my suit, my arms, some of it hist my face. The warmth of it unmistakable even through the haze of adrenaline.
More fluid pulses out of her with each continued thrust of my fingers. The sensation is shocking—visceral in a way I hadn't fully anticipated, even though I'd been deliberately working toward this exact response.
She's screaming now—broken, gasping syllables torn from her throat without thought or control. "Oh, God. Oh, my God. Oh! Oh!" The words tumble out in rapid succession, her voice cracking on each one, pitching higher with every wave of sensation that crashes through her.
There's no coherence left, no filter between what she's feeling and what she's expressing. Just raw, unfiltered reaction—primal and desperate and completely genuine.
Her hips buck violently against my hand, her body arching so sharply off the table, I have to quickly grab her leg to prevent her from rolling off.
I don't stop.
I keep my finger and the pen buried deep inside her, maintaining that relentless pressure against her G-spot even as her inner walls clench and pulse around me.
I place my other hand firm on her lower belly, pressing down with steady, unyielding force. I can feel everything from this position—every contraction, every spasm, every desperate flutter of muscles that have been pushed far beyond anything she's ever experienced before.
More fluid spurts from her pussy in hot, irregular bursts. It's not the controlled, sustained stream from before, but these sudden, violent pulses that seem to sync with her broken cries. Each one soaks me further, drenching my suit. The heat of it registers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I'm too focused on her—on the way her body is responding, the way she's completely lost to this—to care about the mess.
"That's it," I murmur, my voice rough and low, barely audible over her cries. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."
I'm going to replay this exact moment—her body arching, her pussy gushing, those broken sounds tearing from her throat—in my mind every single time I jerk off for the rest of my fucking life.
She surrenders completely, her voice breaking into a slow, low moan that reverberates through her entire frame. It's the sound of utter exhaustion, of a body and mind pushed past every conceivable limit. The moan deepens into something guttural, almost primal—spent, wrecked, emptied of everything she had left to give.
Then, without warning, the moaning fractures into something else entirely.
Crying. Long, wrenching sobs that shake her entire body. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks, cutting hot tracks through the sheen of sweat that covers her skin. Her face crumples, and the sounds coming from her throat are raw, unfiltered—the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.
I withdraw my fingers slowly, carefully, feeling the aftershocks still rippling through her inner walls as I slide free. Moving around to the side of the exam table, I don't hesitate. I scoop her up in my arms, lifting her trembling, boneless form against my chest as though she weighs nothing. She curls into me immediately, instinctively, her small hands grasping desperately at my wet coat, fingers digging in like she's afraid I might let go.
I carry her over to the nearby couch—a low, leather piece positioned specifically for aftercare—and settle down with her cradled against me. Her body molds to mine, tucking perfectly into the curve of my chest and lap, her face pressed against my shoulder as she continues to sob.