Brief Moments

It needn't take long. Brief moments, that ignite and coalesce into a hot vortex, are all that are required. In an hour, or make it a half-hour, many journeys unwind. My fingers deftly shed the outer skin of cloth that shields your skin. Your breath gets catches somewhere between your vocal chords and uvula, and your tongue lunges forth like a heat-seeking missile, hell bent on assaulting my lips. A mean weapon of mass intoxication; each cell inside me dances to each tongue lash, and hollers like a fanatical dervish.

Our lips slither, your hands delicately linger -much like the calm before the blitz – and a no holds barred digital assault ravages my vulval terrain. Shoving your fingers into something has never felt nicer than the pivotal moment where your eyes cut through mine, and your fingers dive into my vulval sea, parting each labium to unleash a whispering torrent.

Each generous volatile upward thrust literally keeps me on my toes, and my calves creak under the strain. Sweat swims from our pores, diffuses through our skin and tangos with each air particle, as my raw labia buckle under your voracious onslaught. One finger, two… words fade into grunts and whimpers, and my cunt reaches its maximal stretch when your fingers form a freakish trinity. It fucks me until a salty tear pricks the corner of my eye, my knees liquefy in your presence, and you disengage, to watch me slide to the floor to gain some composure.

There is the floor, and little else. Your fingers languidly slither out of my invigorated aperture, and I then kneel at the altar of avarice. The walls slide into nothing. According to my blurred salty vision, there is you and I, and little else. The metallic slide of your zip, and your firm hoarse voice, delicately asserts your scorched earth policy, where you wish to pulverize me, and my whispering pussy, into the ground, until I tell you I need to die a little in order to slide out of this chrysalis, and fly into an orgiastic crimson sky.