She looks round for the missing ingredient; a paddle for afterwards. Her eyes light on the small brush next to her chair and a wicked smile tugs at her mouth. Perfect – an expensive toy bought on whim during a weekend flit to Bath. Small enough for her pocket, from the old London firm of Mason Pearson, with natural bristles and a smooth oval back. Since moving, she has kept it beside her chair and used it to sleek Robyn's soft downy long fur, making her writhe and purr beneath it and converting her from aloof queen into greedy lap cat.
Now she catches up the brush and slides into the cool linen of her bed, leaving the sound system pouring forth the late-night soundtrack to her life from Planet Rock. Sliding the brush between pillow and wall, she uncaps the lube and squeezes the cool gel onto her waiting fingers. Feeling the slick wetness and smelling the faint, sharp tang, she smoothes her hand across her shaved mound, smothering the first rough hint of stubble.
Fingers trace her curves and hollows, slipping easily into crevice and fold, spreading coolness changing to liquid warmth in the wake of her curling, groping fingers. Her lips part and her breath quickens as she starts her first probings. Her mind slides back to the evening's wordplay, recalling the damp mellow forest floor beneath her bare feet, feeling again the dog's hot breath mere inches from her wet cunt, the slack-jawed, be-whiskered stare of the old man as she was made to keen her need and her lust at her Master's command.
Her fingers move deeper into her wetness, thrusting and grasping while she stretches and pinches and pulls at her nipples, rolling first one and then the other, twisting the metal, tugging hard and feeling the twinge as her breasts stretch forward and the nipples lengthen.
She lowers her hand to her nether ring, grasping and pulling hard as she rubs and probes and gropes within herself, rhythmically squeezing and releasing her muscles, bringing her self close to release and then easing back to make it last.
