I so often find my warm hands wandering ... where the wet is. My favorite time to release my mind is at dawn, the sun's rays coming through the blinds and making an avant-garde zebra print of my torso. I love glancing down at my chunky tits, striped brown and beige from father sun.
One anxious finger traces my pouty bottom lip, dabs inside for saliva and slides down my chin and neck to my cleavage. That anxious finger circles one pinkish-brown bottlecap nipple and areola, then the other.
With my other hand, I stroke my fleshy vulva, so cute with its 'landing strip.' I'd shave off all my pubic hair, but the guys seem to like a little reminder of my curly Afro bush. The more that left hand gets to stroking closer to my clit, the more my other hand squeezes my D-cup tits. My plump, caramel-brown tits that scream, 'Play with me, daddy!'
Ohhh! If only I were lucky enough to have a private voyeur. He or she could watch. 'Don't touch,' I'd whisper, my breathing shallow. 'Just look ... salivate ... desire me.'
I'd want different private eyes every morning, waiting, wanting, waxing poetically about my wet place. There in the last dark corner before sunlight blows his or her cover, my voyeur would catch every quiver as I taxy the runway toward climax. My sea-fresh aroma would fill the room from the erotic commotion of blurry digits in pussy foam. My cries as if I'm lost at sea, climbing, climbing, climbing, until I die a little death of ecstasy.
Every morning I feel a stirring where the wet is.