The Coochie Diaries
When he found her entrance, he pushed two fingers inside without hesitation, curling them, stretching her, finding a spot that made her see white stars behind her clenched eyelids.
The sounds were obscene, the wet, rhythmic slide of his tongue and fingers, her own choked sobs and pleas, the slick slap of skin on skin, the relentless hiss of the steam. The public nature of the room and the possibility of someone walking in, only poured gasoline on the fire. It was transgressive, dangerous, and it made every nerve ending scream with heightened sensitivity.
“Come for me, Lyla,” he commanded, his voice muffled against her flesh. “Scream it out. Sweat him out. Give it to me.”
Bab Populer