By the time I reached home, my body was alive. I had thoughts so decadent, I was ashamed of myself for thinking such scandalous things.
I undressed before a full-length mirror so I could see myself from head to toe. My long brown hair, wildly framed my face, descending past my shoulders in kinky curls. This was my one statement of nastiness to the rather stuffy business world where I worked.
I removed my blouse and gazed at myself, liking the way the darkness of my hair accented my pale creamy skin. Full hips, generous bust, firm belly and small waist-I recalled one lover telling me I was his voluptuous dream. He liked women with flesh he could fondle and maul-whose bodies are ripe for squeezing.
I felt my breasts, cupping them in my hands, watching the way they looked when I pushed them together. They were large enough to consider a curse at one time in my life, but I was beginning to find them a real treasure the way they made such a charming cleavage, and spilled out of my bra when I set them free-the way they moved with a sexy jiggle when I didn't wear any bra at all. As I massaged them, I practiced seductive looks, my eyes turning smoky and obscure.
My nipples had grown hard, protruding a full inch from the softer flesh, turning a deeper shade of purple the more I pinched the little things between my fingers. I pushed one breast to my face, leaned in and kissed it, licked the surface and ran my tongue along the skin seeking the hard nipple so I could caress it with my wet mouth.
My body burned hot as I stripped my clothes away, and viewed the firm flesh beneath-my long legs, and the sweet sex mound underneath a pair of tiny pink bikinis.
My right hand found its way inside my panties where it roamed along my belly to the wetness of my cunt. As a finger slipped inside the delicate folds of flesh, the other hand pushed down the panties so I could see clearly what I was doing. Kicking the clothes away, I stood naked in front of the mirror. My head was spinning from the liquor, my body insisting on its release, while my mind engaged in a drama inside itself. Some delicious sex-charged man would be standing in front of me, pleasured by every move I made. Perhaps there would be two, or three, or a whole audience of men to perform for.
Fully naked, my hands wandered over my hips and down to the creamy softness of my belly; I was an ardent lover. I could almost feel body heat reflecting back on me. Grazing a palm over my pubic mound, I twirled a finger through the fine dark curls and aimed for the sweet pink bud at the tip of my clitoris. Rubbing it gently, I pressed two fingers to the side of the engorged sliver of skin and began rubbing vigorously, sending sudden shock waves of intense desirous heat though every part of me.
The waves of pleasure rose and fell, so I could hardly stay on my feet. But I was forced to remain where I was, believing that my cum was a theater for the imaginary guests who used my satiation for their own. They demanded I perform, so I rubbed the hot bud harder, pausing occasionally to let the sensations free. I played the sensuous places, feeling a peak of satisfaction begin to build, and then a wonderful rush of energy as I exploded against my fingers, washing my hand in the nectar.
The orgasm swept me silly, my body jerking, clenching, cumming hard and wild. A moaning cry escaped my lips, and then receded as I slowly stroked the spent bud and the sensations died off gently. With each new breath I felt the pleasure, a perfect pleasure, remade every time I masturbated-even though it was never once the same.
Collapsing on my bed, I let the covers caress my skin and the languid moment last as long as the little fires inside still burst their tiny bursts of fire. It didn't surprise me that it was not my last orgasm of the evening.