Amanda's Lonely Game

Amanda gets wet fast, whether fingers, tongue, or her own thoughts touch her. Today the house is quiet, the lights low, her robe slipping open as she stretches across the bed. Her hand drifts between her thighs and finds the small silver vibrator waiting on the sheet. She clicks it on, the buzz low and steady, and drags the rounded tip slowly over her slit until the lips part and shine. Pressure builds; she presses harder, circling the swollen nub, hips lifting off the mattress. Breath catches, then deepens. She slides two fingers inside, working them in time with the toy, knuckles glistening, every stroke louder, wetter. The pace tightens. Her free hand cups a breast, thumb brushing the stiff nipple, and her thighs begin to shake. A low moan slips out, followed by another, rawer. The orgasm rolls through her in tight pulses, fingers buried, toy held firm against the throb, until the last tremor fades and she lies open, flushed, breathing hard, the little silver bullet still humming softly between her legs.