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Heather finds herself in a situation she didn't ask for.

"W-wait," you say. "I'm gross, seriously."

You're beautiful.

A sharp pinch of my fingers upon your nipple-you haven't forgotten my right hand, have you?-discourages any further modesty. I take another whiff, indulge in the bitter tinge of sweat mixing with the lingering scent of body wash on your skin. I pepper your neck with kisses and the odor of your building stimulation swells to join the panoply of scents emanating off you. I arch my body forward, atop your back, forcing you to bear my weight. I scoop my fingers between the crux of your thighs. I find your furnace, already stoked.

I scoop my fingers inwards, eking out of you a reticent flux of skin and sound. I rock my touch over the hidden lips of your pussy. You mewl. My fingertips collect the moisture of your precipitous lust. Again, the wall responds in echo beneath the slap of your palm. Your legs clench around my hand, trying to trap it; you're finally ready. I flex my knuckles, resting the embrace of your thighs; that's for me to decide, not you.

"Please," you say.

My fingers explore the edges of your cunt, tracing every curl and line of your lips. You whine with need, immature, and impatient, like you always are. Damp, you're that too-and not just from sweat, you're positively moist. Slippery arousal all but spills from you, your pussy a font of mute urgency, slicking my fingers and easing their progress. I sink my nails into your tit when a petulant groan cracks in your throat. Shush.

My hand on your breast scrawls upwards, gracing over your clavicle and the shallow curve of your neck, over your chin and against your lips. You cry out, parting them for me, and I enter you there, knowing it only casts in sharp relief the ache building in your unfucked cunt. My fingers depress the firm muscle of your tongue. You respond with quaking motions, slathering my digits, pulsing your lips, begging me inside of you, willing to take it any way you can get it.

Never idle, the pad of my right thumb presses down against the tented fold of flesh at the apex of your cunt, seeking the sensitive button of your clit. Your body goes rigid, stock still as an electric current runs up your spine and locks you to me.

"Please!" You cry out, sputtering the word past the foraging fingers filling your mouth. But the downward thrust of your yearning hips is far more evocative than some single, clumsy syllable.

Oh, all right. You've been patient enough.

I slip just one finger through the portal of your cunt. A rumble starts in your chest. "Yes, Kris," you say, lips morphing around my fingers both above and below. You sob out a sound of timid passion the moment my finger curls inside of you, securing its claim on your g-spot like planting a flag on some precious, fertile ground. I claim your neck with another bite, digging in my teeth, trying to stifle you.

When it doesn't work, when you cry my name again, I resort to harsher tactics. I jerk your sports bra upwards, stuffing the stretched fabric past your lips. Your nostrils flare. Your hips slap backwards to meld with mine. The motion throws my finger into you, deep as it can go.

My thumb presses down, grinding your clit beneath it, distracting you from the pinch of my second finger slipping inside of you. Your tunnel's overwhelming slickness permits my further entrance with ease despite the stretching tension rippling through your inner walls. Muffled, you cry out through your gag. I cram the bra deeper in your mouth, sharing with you the same scent of sweat and exercise that I furrow my nose against your scalp to relish in myself.

Our bodies thump forward, ratting the picture frames on the wall. The uncomfortable position skews my arm at an odd angle, but I've never let a little aching wrist stop me before. I hammer my fingers into you, scraping my nails against your inner button. Your heartbeat soars. I can feel it pounding against my chest through your back.

Your pussy clenches, countering each of my thrusts with a pulse of fresh resistance.

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