Introducing: Grace Whitley, adventuress

Dr Grace Whitley, Phd. is a kick-ass woman and a force of nature. This is a snapshot of an average waking.

It was a big bed, white, with a big white duvet and it sat on sanded pale pine boards – those absurdly broad ones that nobody cuts any more and you have to source from salvage yards. It sat on those boards in the growing light that spilt through her slubby linen curtains, carrying with it a hint of the wrinkled sparkle of the Thames. Grace Whitley lay in her big bed in a half-doze. Woozy and sticky and a little sore, she let her hands wander idly as she took stock of last night.

Her hands cupped each breast and she felt herself arch and her hips tilt. With fingers stroking her left nipple, she gave a small moan and wriggled her bottom like a happy cat. Her right hand wandered over ribs and belly, making small circles over her navel, teasing herself. Unbidden, she felt her thighs open, each knee coming up, the sheets coolly whispering over her skin. There was a hot silken feeling inside her now. Banked coals being brought softly to life.

In soft little steps, she walked her fingertips down and gasped as she reached the soft prickles of hair. With a long drawn out shiver, she moved the hand slowly, just brushing the curled tips of it, feeling the heat of herself caressing her raised palm. Then with a long drawn out sigh, she let her palm settle, her fingers curling beneath her and cupping her cunt.

Grace pressed up into her own grasp, grumbling at the pressure, feeling her own slick movement beneath the coronet of hair and warm, divided skin. Raising her knees she began to explore, and with her raised knees came a waft of her scent. Warm and fecund, salty, sharp. The smell of her, mingled with the scent of them, come dried on her body, come still warm in her cunt.

Slow fingers grazing up the edge of her muff, finding the smooth hot skin at the margins, at the crease of her hips. A long reach down to the tingling skin between her holes, a slow raking trawl through her fuck-sticky hair. Slow wide circles all over and long strokes back and up. The circles tightening, the strokes steadily harder. Her breath deeper, her cries more insistent.

As she gained her rhythm, there was a slight dip, a parting, low down, a searing heat on her fingertip, a flinch. Then, with long paintbrush strokes up along her lips, Grace really started to get into it. She could feel the thickness, the swell in her mons, the mouth of her cunt a long, lightly furred groove from her crux to the thicker tussock of hair that lay over her clit. Like a painter revealing her underpainting, with steady pressure she opened herself up.

She was soaking, shivering, needy. The song of her lust a constant growl deep in her throat. Her hot slit blazed on her paired fingers as she searched deeper, finding other layers of heat and sensation and hot bright need. With neat, practiced movements she opened herself fully, her pink lips slipping and sliding, nipped by her scissoring fingers, spread by her thumb. Her eager thumb.

The urgency grew in her and she tensed and hunched and bucked. Turning her head on the pillow she smelt herself again. The smell of them on her cheek and her lip. The memory of herself stretched wide and filled, their cocks in her mouth and her cunt and the taste of them both and the onrushing swirl of their fucking, that memory spilled into her mind and she was clenching and sucking as her thumb found her clit. The long chorus began as she reached it and built as she strummed. As she tapped out a rhythm, a swift drumbeat rhythm, fingers hooked up inside her, marshalling her cunt to the beat of her thumb.

She lay sprawled akimbo the sheets thrown far off, her back arched and head back, driving, driving on. Bucking and thrusting, her breasts shimmering and thighs quaking, breath coming in gasps and strangles she fucked herself with her fingers and fucked her fingers right back.

Little snapshots of memory. Sore knees on the carpet, hands tied. Hands on her throat, in her hair, pushing her mouth onto their waiting cocks. Riding, riding, being ridden. The tangle of limbs, holding both of them, sucking them both. Cramming her mouth with them. Gagging on one as the other fucked her onto it.

It grew somewhere else, some other place. Somewhere behind and beneath her cunt, but far off, beyond, on an arc of bright energy that ran from navel to clit and flowed down her legs. A vast thunderhead of swirling bright cloud, shimmering with the forces simmering within. She was too small to contain it, it dwarfed her, and stretched her and soon she must. Burst.

With a final remembrance of her holes filled with cock, bruised with them, stretching and thrusting, the thunderhead burst.

Grace arched off the bed with a guttural howl and clenched and hunched and curled like a hook, squeezing her hand with her cunt and her thighs. She sounded hurt, wounded, drowning.

And afterwards she lay still, expression as blank as a castaway beached by the sea.

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