Intrusion by Charlotte Stein Page A

underneath my panties, and ease through what feels like a torrential downpour. And when I find my very tight but oh-so-greedy pussy, I push in a little. I make the shape he asked for with my fingers, and tug just once. Just once, I think—only once isn’t enough.
    I hear that slick sound he probably did and get this jolt of something too vicious to be pleasure, then just have to do it again. Harder this time, faster this time, until I know exactly what I’m pushing against and precisely where it feels best.
    After which, all is lost.
    â€œDoes it feel good?” he asks, and I can hardly answer him. I try, but then he presses down on the back of my hand and I forget where my tongue is supposed to go.
    â€œAh, yes, yes,” I say, and am amazed I manage that. He’s pressing so I’ll do it harder, and go in deeper, and just the thought of that is beyond what I can reasonably cope with. I twist into it and twist away all at the same time, not sure if I want this much pleasure. Or want this kind of pleasure.
    But he helps clarify for me.
    â€œUse your thumb on your clit,” he says, and I know then for sure.
    â€œNo—I need to. . .I need to. . .” I start, fighting for the right words, the right sentiment to match this sensation. I don’t have to though. He already knows.
    â€œYou need to come like that,” he says, and oh, he is just the best.
    All I can do is moan and nod in answer, that pressure now so hot and hard it sort of feels like my orgasm is being squeezed out of me. My legs don’t want to stay down on the bed in some polite and pretty sort of pose. They want to come up, real close to my stomach.
    They want to make me look wanton and desperate, so lost in sensation I hardly care about anything but feeling more of it. Getting more of it. I practically have three fingers inside myself now—though that isn’t the thing that is really putting me over the edge.
    It’s the sense that he is very close to touching more than my hand.
    That maybe he even likes it, or wants it. I feel the pad of his finger sort of stir against my skin, and suspect he does it because some of my wetness is there. It must have spread up over my fingers, and now he gets to feel it. He gets to stroke it.
    And all while pretending to focus just on me.
    â€œThink you can?” he asks, voice just a touch shakier than it was before. Not so much that it really gives the game away, but enough for me to want to push. To hardly feel bad about pushing him.
    â€œGod, yes, yes just. . .say more things to me,” I pant, hoping for more suggestions or maybe directions, or best of all, oh, best of all please just order me to do whatever you want. If he ordered me I think I’d burst, yet somehow, what he gives me is so much better.
    â€œThank you,” he murmurs into my hair, and the words are such a shock I come close to stopping what I’m doing. I even turn my head and look right at him, sure I will see some kind of explanation there. It will be in his eyes, I think.
    Only his eyes are still closed.
    His eyes are closed, just like I asked. All this time, all this heat between us, and he stuck to my one request—though that isn’t even the best part. No, he saves that for last. He waits until I’m so on the edge I could stick out my tongue and taste it, and then he tells me exactly what he’s grateful for.
    â€œThank you for telling me to talk like this. For telling me to be detached—you have no idea how good this is for me. How good it feels to just say these words and hear you and know that you like this,” he says, and I answer in kind.
    I give him everything I’ve got—including the sight of me like this.
    â€œI do, good God, I do. Look at me, and see for yourself. See all the things you do to me just by being you,” I say, and when he does just that everything breaks open inside me.
    He sets that heated gaze on me, and I do what