Member-only story
I was sitting up in bed, my glasses on, reading silently.
She was next to me, naked, legs spread, knees up in the air. Her position reminded me of a frog stuck on its back, its vulnerable underbelly exposed. Not a flattering juxtaposition, but that’s what went through my mind as I looked at her, caressing her spread, dewy pussy with her right hand, her left squeezing her left breast and then her right. She was clearly trying to give herself the love and attention she wasn’t receiving from me. Filling her pussy with her three fingers, pinching and pulling her nipples, rubbing her hand over her tum, licking her fingers. Moaning.
“Don’t you ever tire of reading?” she finally asked, pouting.
“Don’t you ever tire of fucking yourself silly?” I retorted.
“Say what you will, I am a damn good fuck. Better than most.”
“Present company excluded,” I added.
“I wouldn’t say that necessarily.”
She was trying to get my ire up, or something up.
“What are you reading, anyhow?” she asked out of frustration.
“An abstract.”
“What?”
“An abstract.”
“Is that the title of the book?”