"It can't be me," she said, as she said to herself almost every day. She was cupping one of her tits, squeezing it hard, squeezing it till her lips puckered and she made a whistling sound through them. Her other hand continued to rub insistently up and down the crack of her pussy, her finger slipping inside now and then, making little passes over the erected tip of her hungry clitoris. She let her finger drop down, working it quickly in and out the mouth of her cunt, and she could feel the sticky wetness – not the plain wetness of the water that bathed her body, but the juicy, hot secretions from deep inside. "Mmm, God, yes, yes!" she purred, stiffening her finger. Joanne held her breath for a second, stabbing her finger wickedly, sinfully, into her snatch, and she lifted up, standing on her tiptoes a long time as she penetrated her twat.
"Ooohhhh!" she hummed, settling down onto her soles again, her finger still wedged in her box. She wiggled from side to side, shifting her weight back and forth, so that her pussy did a kind of tango around her embedded finger. She felt the smooth texture of her cuntal walls, the continual flow of sticky juice bathing her finger, dripping into the hollow of her hand as it tensed against the sweet hairy puff of her pussy.