Svitlana pressed her cunt against my hand, her pelvis weaving as if she was being fucked hard by something invisible. She was trying to get my fingers inside her lips, into that honeyed world just a centimetre away.  I said, “Say please again.”

“Please, please, please, god, please. Please.”

I had a thought. “Say please, sir.” 

Half an hour ago she’d have been angry at that suggestion. But now she had more things to think about. She didn’t hesitate, “Sir, please, please, please sir.”  

“Good.” I slipped two fingers, then three, into that slippery-wet, spongy-soft world. She stopped, still for nearly five seconds, smiling like a saint at the point of martyrdom, in a Renaissance painting. She moaned with relief so intense it seemed to hurt. I don’t think she knew, at that moment, that I weas there, except for my hand. 

Orgasm scream represented as sound wave.

All of her consciousness was in her body. She wasn’t thinking or calculating or remembering. She was experiencing the sensations from her cunt, maybe also her buttocks pressed against the sheet. She’d closed her eyes, and if I said something she wouldn’t hear it. Her cunt pressed damply, frantically against my hand, pushing against me harder and faster, her eyes shut and her mouth open. She made incoherent groaning and gurgling noises. I let her fuck my hand, pressing back at her. Until she screamed.

Her body arced so that only her feet and shoulders touched the bed. Her cunt tightened on my fingers, and she gulped for air like a red-faced baby. Then she screamed again. She was beautiful. I saw the bones in her face when she came. She fell back, gasping.