micro smut 1 by sutreaux
tags: people with pussies [F/F but gender isn't mentioned much], fingering, shower sex
I felt all sneaky when I realized the vibrator was sitting on the shower shelf, freshly cleaned but not yet put back in its baggie. I think you were surprised when you felt it against your hip, but I'd gotten myself too excited and forgotten how to be smooth (as if I ever am), and couldn't quite find the right spot for it, where I knew you needed it most, needed it deeply and urgently and hungrily. Instead, I fumbled trying to reach around to your clit, gave you enough time to distract me with your fingers against that deliciously ticklish spot on my hip, that spot that makes me tremble, enough time to slip the vibrator out of my hand.
I was primed for you, having been holding the tension in my body all damn day, that false paradox of soaking wet and unquenchably thirsty. You'd turned me on even more in the car, talking to me about shower sex, but I've always felt kind of meh about shower sex, not knowing how the friction could feel good with the water washing away all the lubrication. Goddamn my logical reasoning of things that defy logic.
Your fingers didn't slip into me easily, because that loss of wetness is real in the shower, but the forced slowness of your fingers finding their way into my cunt was maybe even better than the easy slide inside that you get when I'm wet like usual. I couldn't rock myself onto your fingers like I wanted to, maybe because of the wetness paradox, but also definitely because I was so overwhelmed with feelings, both emotional and physical. The water -- beating onto my head, flowing down my shoulders, over my nipples and back and goosebumped arms -- was an apt metaphor for the sensations drenching me.
Once you found that spot inside me that you find so well, I almost collapsed onto you, onto the shower floor, becoming a puddle myself. Suddenly I was undone in that way you love and that I don't totally understand, like I'm lost, and exactly where I'm meant to be, suspended in time, on the edge and whole, all at once. Gasping, moaning, cursing, completely focused on the flames your hands were fanning, collapsing onto myself, and concentrating on staying on my feet.
I think I said your name, once or a million times. Somehow the pumping of your fingers inside me draws it out of me. It's partially a plea, asking for more, that you never stop, keep massaging that particular ridge or fold or divot or whatever miraculous spot you've found in me. It's also an affirmation, a moment of appreciation for the surprising pleasure you give me, and a caution, a warning that you might split me open and find whatever hides inside my slick, molten core.
That seems to be your goal though, because you keep pushing, pulling, stroking, grinding your fingers and the vibrator against me. On your knees now, you try to brace me, but it's never been like this for me before, and I don't trust myself not to fall or maybe fall apart, and I'm scared of it. I stop you too soon, but knowing that I can be patient with it, can let my orgasm break over me soon but not immediately, and that we can always come back to my education on the finer points of shower sex.
Was it good for you? Let me know: sutreaux@gmail.com Follow me on instagram for new smut: @sutreaux