Sunday

Sunday night.

Whilst delving deeper into The 52 Seductions, a sudden anger manifests itself. I want to rip Jason Statham's face from the poster that hangs above my bed. Prick.

This is the zenith of frustration. Cold fingers, cold room and a libido that is about to pack its bags and leg it to Spain. And the reigniting of Betty and Herbert's sex life on the page isn't helping.

I put the book away and settle in for the night with Michael Palin's Full Circle. But it's no use. Even Michael's excitement over the Kodo drummers on the island of Sado is arousing. I find myself tuning out for most of it.

Later on, I lie in bed, frustrated at my body's sudden desire for memories. Memories of tongues, hands and teeth and voice. I writhe, and finally give in.

What I don't give into is the urge for quick satisfaction. For once, I don't rush to my toy chest to pick out my equipment.

And it occurs to me, as they dance on my clit, that I had forgotten the simple pleasure of fingers.

Fingers. Wetness. Oh dear, I'm so wet.

I slide off my pants and throw them into a corner. I want it more than ever. I want to squirt. No, not squirt. I want to gush.

My fingers find their way inside me, and I relentlessly stroke the spot. That spot, the G that makes my body sing and scream, and fuck, does it ever do just that.

My pussy craves more, and more than ever do I want to give it to her.

And when I squirt… gush… it feels amazing.

I refuse to quit. I want it all and I want it again.

I gush again. The air smells of my own scent and it's the most brilliant thing.

Finally, I get back to my clit. I rub, twist and writhe, until the most intense and most amazing orgasm washes over me.

I don't know how to describe it. Warmth. Tingling. Everything.

I lay spent , my body covered in my own juices. My pussy so wet.

And the frustration floats away.

Republished with permission from Lady Laid Bare. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo via New Nude City.