Top Floor Balcony

With fingers that long, she'd be able to reach her c-spot with ease. My mind relished the image provided with the thought, of seeing them emerging glistening and wet with reward afterwards.

Aviva began gently flexing her hips once more, gyrating them slightly around the pivot of her fingers' attention, with legs rhythmically tensing up in closing, then relaxing further open again, teasing me with hints of hidden activity before revealing her all once again in bold detail – I really wanted to get close and draw up her scent up deep inside me, then to taste her upon my tongue and feel her silkiness rich in my mouth.

Keeping my own stroking light and teasing in its own way – I found that I really didn't want an orgasm right now. There would be enough of those across the next few weeks, and it would lessen the moment I realised, loosing a few hot spurts against the hotter concrete of the parapet, leaving the evidence there to fry in the sun – that just felt cheap. I was just so pleased to be seeing this, and knew I had enough fuel already for a thousand nights to come, where I could take my time to build each release properly into something special.

Her legs were tensing, lifting up smoothly to hang there above her body for added sensation, spread wider open to the purposeful fingers moving more quickly in and out of her.

The anticipation inside myself was at boiling point – I could feel a slow trickle of wetness down my thigh, my erection's throb sending more after it and leaving me feeling open as if just after an orgasm. I wondered if somehow I had indeed had a very slight one...

Feet coming back down in hard contact with the recliner, she arched herself up in lithe expression of the tension of need inside her, an archer drawing a bow drawn ready for release, fingers now deep inside her and moving strongly at the apex of that arch, beautifully visible.

Then just like one of the Wimbledon tennis pros, she let out an explosive, wordless cry and sagged down as it echoed briefly unheeded around the flats' private space, while throughout she continued to writhe in slow oblivion upon the recliner under her fingers' last attentions.

By increments her body came slowly to gradual rest, the legs straightening and stretching out in fine relaxation, stomach settling, its rise and fall in tune with that of her chest, gradually both reaching equilibrium together.

She licked her lips with a tongue gone dry and pale, the toll of heavy breathing and a mouth left open for her prolonged and silent moan.

With both hands remaining cupped over her still twitching lips and clitoris, riding out the occasional ripples of minor surges going up her body at intervals, until eventually all was still, she simply lay there, gloriously naked and replete, limbs ever so lightly parted and gone fully limp in total relaxation.

How can someone already so beautiful, transcend that ultimate boundary by becoming more so, simply in the space of relaxing?

Until then I hadn't been aware that the question could be inside me, and I certainly had no idea of the answer – but I intended to find out.