Cuntstruck

I do so adore how this lace hugs my curves. Standing before the full-length mirror, I run my hands slowly over my waist, admiring the way the dark blue satin cups cradle my breasts. They look absolutely divine -- full, high, perfectly shaped. The fabric presses just enough to make them spill ever so slightly over the top, like they're trying to defy the lingerie and offer themselves to the room. Or to whoever I decide is worthy of seeing them.

I can't help but smile. These breasts of mine have always been one of my most powerful charms. Men stare, women envy, and I? I treasure them. They're heavy in my hands, warm and soft, with just the right amount of bounce when I move. I press them together with my forearms, just a little, watching the cleavage deepen, the way the soft flesh yields to the pressure. Mmhm. They beg to be touched, kissed, worshipped -- and frankly, I think they deserve nothing less.

Turning slightly, I let my eyes trail down to my hips, then further back. Oh, yes. That. My ass. I've always had a certain... fondness for it. The way the garter straps stretch just slightly over the roundness makes it all the more irresistible. It's firm -- no sagging softness here -- but with that perfect, supple give. Just enough to make grabbing it satisfying, yet still a shape sculpted to tease beneath a tight skirt or sway shamelessly when I walk.

I twist at the waist and watch it bounce, just a little, and smirk. Truly, it's a masterpiece. I've caught even the most disciplined men losing their composure with one glance -- and really, who could blame them? Between these breasts and this ass, it's almost unfair how much of an advantage I have. Almost.

I unclip my bra and let it fall to the floor. My breasts hold their shape, defiant even without the satin's support -- firm, high, and proud, like they know they were sculpted to be admired. I slide my hands over them, fingers splaying out to feel the tautness beneath the softness. There's weight, yes, but no droop -- they sit exactly where they should, perfect handfuls of warm, resilient flesh. I squeeze gently, watching them push back against my touch, that subtle resistance that makes them all the more satisfying to hold. I press them together, then let go -- they spring back into place like they're proud of being unyielding.

I trail a finger down between my breasts, letting it slip along my stomach and to the soft swell of my backside. I hum softly, admiring every inch. This body of mine? It's a weapon. And I wield it skillfully.

I hook my thumbs under the waistband of the lace panties, dragging the delicate fabric down my thighs in one slow, teasing motion. The cool air kisses my skin, and I step out of them with the poise of a practiced performer, never taking my eyes off the mirror.

Now completely bare, I stand before my reflection and let my gaze fall lower -- past the swell of my breasts, over the flat plane of my stomach, until it settles between my thighs.

Mmm... exquisite.

I keep myself smooth, of course -- not a hint of hair to interrupt the view. Just soft, flawless skin and the delicate folds of my most intimate place, glistening faintly in the soft light. I part my legs slightly, just enough to reveal more, to admire the way everything nestles perfectly -- tight, neat, and oh, so inviting. I'm not ashamed to say it: my pussy is beautiful. Refined. Feminine in every sense of the word. Just like the rest of me, it was made to be worshipped -- to tempt, to tease, to leave others aching for a single taste.

I run two fingers slowly along the outer lips, not quite touching where it would matter most -- not yet. Just appreciating the softness, the heat, the way it responds to even the most delicate caress. I know what I have, and I know the effect it has. How many times have I left someone trembling just from the sight of it? How many have begged to be allowed between my legs, only to be denied for daring to think they deserved it?

I smile again, wicked and pleased.

It's not just that I look good -- I'm perfect. From the heavy swell of my breasts, to the round, ripe curve of my ass, to the sweet, aching heat between my thighs... I am the desire incarnate. And tonight, I think I'll indulge myself a little longer.

After all, who could possibly appreciate me more than I do?

I sink back onto the velvet chaise behind me, legs parted just enough to give myself the view I crave. My fingers trail slowly back down my stomach, light and teasing, until they reach the slick warmth between my thighs.

Gods, I'm already wet.

I circle my clit with practiced ease, just enough pressure to make my thighs twitch. Mmm... I know exactly how to touch myself -- exactly where, exactly how fast, how slow. Watching myself in the mirror, lips parted, breasts heaving, I look like sin sculpted into flesh. And I feel it too -- divine, decadent, unstoppable.

"You're perfect," I whisper to myself, voice low and breathy. "Absolutely perfect."

Two fingers slide lower, parting my folds, dipping inside with a wet, needy sound that sends a shiver through me. The way I clench around them is obscene -- tight and hot, like I was made to milk moans from lovers I never intend to love.

And that's when I think of them.

The husbands.

The ones who stare too long, speak too politely, whose eyes always drift to my chest when they think no one notices. I notice. I love it. They try to act loyal, like they'd never stray -- until I lean in, give them just a little too much cleavage, whisper something with a smile that promises ruin.

I curl my fingers inside me and moan softly, hips starting to roll.

Their wives -- so proper, so smug in their little domestic cages. And then I take what's "theirs." I fuck their husbands and leave them dripping with my scent. I make those men mine for a night, and they always come back crawling, begging, guilt-drunk and addicted.

It's not just sex -- it's power.

I love knowing I'm better. That my body, my touch, my presence is enough to shatter vows and break homes. I don't want them to leave their wives -- no, no, that would ruin the game. I want them trapped. Bound to women they no longer look at, because all they can see is me.

My thumb finds my clit again, slick and swollen, and I cry out as my fingers thrust faster. My other hand comes up to grab one of my breasts -- gods, it feels so good to squeeze, to tug, to feel the weight of it in my palm while I fuck myself.

My legs tremble, my breath ragged, thighs soaked. I can feel it building -- that heat, that white-hot pressure curling in my core, tightening with every stroke, every fantasy of another man falling to his knees for me, ring still on his finger, wife still waiting at home.

"Oh, fuck--yes..." I gasp, head falling back, back arching.

The orgasm crashes through me like magic unleashed -- hard, hot, shaking me apart. My pussy clenches around my fingers, so wet, so tight, and I ride it out with moans that echo off the walls, hips grinding in the aftermath, chasing every last flicker of bliss.

When it fades, I slowly pull my fingers out, glistening, trembling, utterly satisfied.

I lick them clean, savoring my own taste. Regal. Addictive. Just like me.

Still watching the mirror, I smirk again.

"Who needs loyalty," I murmur, "when they'll always come crawling back to me?"

I haven't even cooled down.

My thighs are still slick with the last orgasm, my chest rising and falling, nipples hard, skin flushed -- but the heat hasn't left me. Not even close. If anything, the memory that's stirring in my mind now only makes me wetter.

It was in Vegas. Oh, I knew he was married -- it's never an accident with me. He came to me all flustered and guilty, trying to resist. How noble. How pathetic. It only made it better. I wore nothing, and pushed him on my bed.

He was inside me in minutes, moaning like a man possessed.

And then... the door opened.

His wife.

I thought it would be a scene. Screaming. Tears. Maybe some delightful slap across his face that I'd pretend to be surprised by. But no. She just stood there, frozen, eyes wide -- not with rage... but fascination. Her cheeks flushed, lips parted. She didn't even speak.

I slowed my hips, just a little, while I looked back at her over my shoulder. I was on top, of course.. My hair was sticking to my back with sweat, his hands clutched awkwardly at my hips like he didn't know what to do with them.

I smiled at her.

"Do you want to join?" I asked -- just to mock, really. To twist the knife.

But she shook her head. She said, voice trembling, "No... I just... want to watch."

That moan? That low, desperate one echoing in my throat right now as my fingers slide back into my soaked cunt? That's what I sounded like then. Because fuck, did that thrill me.

I fucked him harder. Rode him like a queen claiming her throne, while his wife watched, silent and breathless, her hand slipping under her skirt. She couldn't stop. She couldn't look away. Every slap of skin, every gasp, every time I reached back to drag my nails down his chest -- she was there, eyes wide, thighs pressed together, a silent, humiliated, aroused witness to her own betrayal.

The sheer power of it -- knowing I was pleasuring both of them, and yet owned neither. I made her crave watching her husband be taken from her.

I'm moaning louder now, my fingers pumping faster, palm grinding against my clit, imagining her face -- red, ashamed, addicted. That look of horror and arousal twisted into one. Gods, I came so hard that night, clenching around her husband while her shaky breath filled the room.

And now?

Now I'm close again.

I curl my fingers deep, rubbing harder, hips rocking, imagining them both at the foot of my bed -- watching, needing, powerless to stop me. That's what I love. Not just the sex. The control. The breaking down of all those smug little vows.

I cry out as I come again, arching my back, legs shaking, toes curling. The orgasm rolls through me, longer, deeper -- I swear I gush, soaking my hand, moaning like a bitch in heat.

When I finally collapse back against the chaise, breathless, glowing, I laugh -- a soft, decadent sound.

"They never forget me," I whisper, licking my fingers clean again. "And neither do their wives."

I lift my hand slowly, fingers glistening with the slick evidence of my pleasure. Still warm. Still dripping.

I bring them to my lips -- two fingers first -- and slide them into my mouth with deliberate, lazy grace. My tongue swirls around them, savoring every drop like fine wine. Mmm...

Sweet, with a faint saltiness -- like the center of desire itself. Rich, intoxicating, mine. There's something kinky about it, knowing how badly others have begged just for a taste... and here I am, devouring it like a delicacy, moaning softly as I suck myself clean.

I push my fingers in again, press them deeper, then pull them out with a soft, wet pop.

"I taste like temptation," I murmur to the mirror, lips glistening now too. "No wonder they always come back for more."

I stretch, satisfied, and smirk at my reflection.

I don't blame the man for falling for me.

I would, I were them...