I shoved her onto the bed and she fell back laughing, arms wide, hair spread across the sheets with that front strand stuck to her sweaty forehead. I grabbed the bullet from her hand, still warm from her palm, clicked it up to the second speed, and the buzz filled the room. I got between her legs and her knees snapped shut on reflex, thighs tight, that hard muscle from someone who’s danced since they were a kid. I pried them open with my hand, no rush, and she let me.
The smell hit when I got close—pussy, strong, half sweet half sour, mixed with her sweat and mine. I pressed my mouth to the inside of her thigh where the skin was thin and it goosebumped under my lip, all the little hairs standing up—cool on the surface from the wind coming through the window, hot underneath, salty.
I flattened my hand on her crotch with the bullet under my palm and started dragging it everywhere except where she wanted it: over the bottom of her belly where the buzz sank in and made the skin jump; along the crease of her groin, that line where leg meets body and you could feel the blood pounding against my fingers; right at the root of her hair; down the inside of her thigh to her knee and back up. The sound changed depending on where it landed—sharp over bone, muffled in the soft flesh.
Every time I got near her clit her hips chased after it, lifting off the bed like they were hunting my hand, and I pulled away. She let out this annoyed little sound through her nose, dug her heel into the mattress and lifted her ass.
“Rafa, quit being a fucking bitch…”
I spread her open with two fingers, no bullet, just to look: her inner lips all swollen and red, making wet noises when I parted them, clit pushed out, hard, shiny. I slid the finger in slow like I’d promised and it went in easy because she was so soaked, but she still sucked in a breath and clenched hard around it. I stopped halfway in. It was tight, hot, and I felt her pussy grab and release, grab and release, four or five times until she finally relaxed and her whole body sank back into the mattress with the air leaving her lungs.
She rocked her hips a little, testing with my finger still inside, and when she didn’t say anything or ask me to pull out I pushed the rest of the way in. Inside she was smooth and slick right at the entrance, then deeper she got even wetter and softer. I turned my hand palm-up, hooked the finger and dragged upward, hunting for that rougher, firmer spot behind the bone.
The sound she made told me I’d found it. Not a moan—just a sharp “uh!” like the air got punched out of her. She looked at me right then, eyes wide, that face that said “right there.”
I added the second finger and she tightened more. She shut her eyes and furrowed her brow but didn’t tell me to stop, so I stayed still with both fingers buried until her face smoothed out. When it did, I dropped the bullet onto her clit.
She moaned loud and shameless the second it touched: back arching off the bed, neck stretching back, chin tipping up, knees slamming into my ribs on both sides, opening and closing. Her hand scrambled for the sheet, grabbed, let go, went to her own tit and squeezed the nipple hard, then dropped and ended up on my wrist—holding on, not pushing me away.
Every time I curled my fingers up and pressed the bullet down she got louder, until the sounds weren’t even words anymore, just raw noise, and the wet sound of my hand working her kept getting louder, slicker, dripping down my wrist.
I stayed right there between her legs, watching everything up close, heart hammering in my throat, my own pussy throbbing untouched, mouth full of spit.
I watched her belly shake over the muscle, her chest rising fast, her face all twisted up with it, mouth open, left foot with the big toe locked straight and the others curled—ballerina foot, calluses and all—and I sped up just to see what her body would do next.
“Easy, easy, easy…”
She wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to herself.
I eased off until the bullet was barely moving, just the buzz resting on her, and she started grinding on my hand on her own, ass lifting off the mattress—and then I slammed it back on.
“Fuck… fuck, shit, Rafa…”
Her voice went high and short, no air between the words. Her thighs clamped around my head and locked me in, feet crossing behind my back, hips lifting clean off the bed and staying there, shaking, while inside she started pulsing around my fingers in hard waves, one after another, so strong I couldn’t move my hand anymore.
She screamed. Mouth wide open, hand crushing my wrist.
Then she dropped back onto the mattress like dead weight.
I pulled the bullet off and switched it off. Silence rushed in, just the wind whistling through the window crack and her gasping for air, fast and desperate.
I left my fingers inside a little longer, still, feeling the squeezes get weaker and further apart until they stopped. When I pulled out I did it slow and she still twitched all over, legs snapping shut around my hand. My fingers and wrist were soaked; I wiped them on the sheet but it didn’t do much.
She lay there with her eyes closed, chest heaving, hair stuck to her forehead and neck. A little tremor ran through her thigh on its own, then again, and she laughed low without opening her eyes.
“Holy fucking shit.”
I laughed too, so turned on from making her come like that, from being the one in control, feeling way too powerful.
“Next time I’ll bring the others for you to try.”
“Promise?” She looked at me, eyes still glassy with it. “Don’t forget.”
“Promise.”
And I already knew I was going to be thinking about it all fucking week.