Emptiness

The laugh comes from the muscular one, low and dirty, as he steps forward. His fingers find the base of the plug, curling around it with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath hitch. I feel the resistance first, the way the rose gold clings to me, soaked through from the night's heat. Then the pull begins — gradual, teasing, each inch of it dragging against my inner walls.

My hands find his shoulders for balance, my knees threatening to buckle as he draws it out. The sensation is overwhelming, the emptiness left behind almost worse than the fullness I'd been carrying all night. A soft, broken sound escapes me before I can stop it — half gasp, half whimper.

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