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Christina on the Couch Masturbating
Don't worry, it's just a squirt gun Christina uses to keep her pussy off the furniture.
As Christina's arousal increases, she rolls to her back and spreads her legs, hooking one over the back of the sofa and letting the other slide over the front cushion. I like to think a small streak of exhibitionist influences her, but it's also possible she likes the feel of fresh air on her pussy. It certainly gives her more room to maneuver. Her fingers caress the crease between her swollen outer and inner labia. Sometimes she pries the flesh apart, opening her cunt lips, allowing the egress of fresh sexual sap. She is careful not to touch her clitoris. A close observer such as myself can note the tiny tremors of her anus; the change in color of her labia, from slippery pink to glistening mauve; the darkening and swelling of the halos about her nipples—so much so that the engorged nipples themselves are nearly swallowed by the puff of areola flesh. Christina's breathing becomes more ragged. Her moans move to the back of her throat. Her eyes flicker. Her asshole twitches. The skin above her breasts and at her throat and on her cheeks flushes ruby red. She is about to come.
She tries to hold off, but want overcomes will. Her finger presses the button of her clit. Orgasm is instantaneous. The first contraction crushes the air out of her. Her gasp is inward and overwhelming. Her cunt clenches, gushing sex juice. Her asshole spasms. Her body seizes, jerks, seizes again.
The second, third, and forth contractions, each sharper than the last, turn her inside out. The thrash and throe of climax opens a seam in the plump pillow beneath her head, and a dozen tiny white feathers fly out and float down. Beneath the sofa, the cat toys with the gun, batting it into a slow spin. A paw reaches out. Catches the trigger. Christina, of course, doesn't notice anything amiss; she's sinking into a lake of quiet bliss. And then
Bang!
The blast jolts Christina. She sits up in time to watch the last of the semen-colored feathers settle as if dust. "Oh, Mister Story Teller, you lied about the gun," she says. "See if I suck or fuck you any time soon. And you, you naughty Pussy, look what you've done! Not only have you wounded my favorite pillow, you've killed my afterglow. I'm going to have to start all over again."
story and illustrations by Mat Twassel |
