Those thick fingertip paused at her swollen clit, applying the merest bit of pressure. She held perfectly still afraid it would stop if she moved, afr...id of her own reaction to this most intimate touch. She kept a death grip on the wrist near her breast. The fingers of her right hand dug into the corded tendons on the underside of the forearm and everything in her cried out to thrust her hips forward, to beg him to stroke her, to bury more than just one finger in the moist heat between her. So I say it first, out loud, mimicking her southern accent, ‘Come on Penning, how do you say this without turning it into porn or butchering it with nice words? You can do this! Write it to me, Baby!’ This amuses even my Jill Muse Meister. She likes to hear me working. I can see it in that crooked little smile she does when she’s really happy as opposed to that one she uses when she is really, deeply troubled. And you know, she really does seem content for now. She is right here fucking me. She. More

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