He carried me, my legs wrapped around him, and moved in and out of me, stroked me as he walked around the room.

His sexual movements were smoother than warm butter, creative, musical, and right away he became a conductor who directed the performance and moans of his one-woman orchestra with his dick. I sang like a choir.

My sounds encouraged his tongue to torture me. . . . Without embarrassment he sucked me like I was a man . . . . Glanced up at me as I looked down at him. . . . Then put all of his tongue deep inside me again. I lost it. People in planes, and on Century, Sepulveda, and Airport boulevards, heard my sexual pleas.

He tongue swiped my sex like was licking the frosting off a cupcake. I called out to heaven again. . . . My sounds encouraged him to torture me.

He made himself comfortable on his back and I climbed him, straddled his face . . . and leaned toward the headboard so I could keep my balance and stay in control, so I wouldn't fall on his nose.

I felt it coming and it felt so good, the hollowness inside my belly, a rising savageness, a sensation of hunger that I wanted to run from, yet embrace; control, yet submit to; and all I could do was squirm.

We kissed again . . . . My clit began to twerk.

. . . the walls of her vagina tightening around me as she laughed.