When she came it was an explosion, and it should have blown her body to pieces, but it didn't. Somehow she survived the initial impact of orgasm, and then she went rocking up, moaning, keening her blues to the echoing walls of the shower compartment and the bathroom outside, and she couldn't bear to work the thing inside her any longer. She jerked it out of her pussy, replaced it with a stiff, straining finger, and she humped the sweetest, hottest, wettest part of her come onto her finger as it plunged deep inside her, soothing away the sweet fuck-pain she'd brought herself to. At last she lay huddled in a ball on the shower stall floor, knees pulled up to her chin, finger wedged but no longer moving in her pussy, and she could only moan and sob as she came down from the humiliating but [missing text].
CHAPTER TWO
Afterwards, drained, she took another shower, this time only to bathe.
It wasn't the first morning Joanne had inaugurated by a vigorous bout of masturbation. It had begun as an occasional thing. God, what else could she do, when she spent the night tossing and turning next to a husband who thought bed was merely someplace to sleep? And the few times she'd been able to coax a fuck or a suck out of him, he'd gone about it as if he really were asleep. Pump – pump – pump – squirt his cum up her twat, roll off, and go back to sleep. For Christ's sake! She was a mature, passionate woman, maybe no more passionate than the average, but that was plenty enough. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, and she wasn't getting it from her husband.