I can’t help but bite my lip as you trail your fingers down your stomach and tease playfully along your panties. I can smell you, even across the room. You’re squirming under the touch of your own fingers, the flutter of your fingertips too soft, too gentle as your hips raise in anticipation.
You’re eyeing me up, grinning as you grind against your own hand. I know you love it when I watch. My thighs are pressed hard against each other but that doesn’t stop the pulsing within me, craving to feel your hands running along my own body, or inside me, meeting that pulse.
Your free hand trails back up your tummy, up across your breast and it tightens in response. Your moan breaks through your lips and my whole body quakes in response.
Unconsciously, I feel my hand sliding into my own hair, grabbing and tugging at the curls, trying to contain myself.
The pace of your hand is quickening. I think I’ve lost you to your reveries as your hand has slipped under your panties and your hips no longer obey to your own teasing. That is, until… I hear you whisper my name.
I’m moaning back into the air before I can stop myself, wanting so badly to jump onto the bed and assist you, to have you breathe my name into my mouth with a kiss.
But no. I’ve promised to be good. I squirm and struggle against my own mental bounds, as your moans get louder and your body is writhing at your own touch. I can hear my pulse racing in my head as I watch you working yourself over. Finally, your breaking point rushes over you. A momentary silence is met by the crashing of your groans, taking in every wave of pleasure as your orgasm envelopes you.
Your fingers slow down, you hold your breast firmly as you come down, sighing in contentment.
“Thank you so much for letting me watch,” I whisper quietly.
“The pleasure was all mine,” you purr in response.