One word after another, weaving the lines tighter and tighter, devolving thought into instinctual pleasure.

—

Djaevle: Press your hand in against your pussy.

Reine: yes

Djaevle: Feel the heat.
Djaevle: The wetness.
Djaevle: The hunger, under your hand.
Djaevle: Feel yourself stroking, for me.
Djaevle: Feel it build even higher.
Djaevle: Until you feel it in your pulse.
Djaevle: Your breathing.
Djaevle: Your hand.

Reine: god
Reine: it is ethereal
Reine: i’m about to float out of my skin
Reine: may i?

Djaevle: Almost.

Reine: please

Djaevle: Think. On that edge.
Djaevle: Think about the wicked things I make you do.
Djaevle: That I can make you do.
Djaevle: That you’re playing with your pussy at my words.
Djaevle: That I could make you be even more wicked.
Djaevle: Feel that.
Djaevle: Taste it.
Djaevle: Do anything for it? 

Reine: YES

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