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He’d just sent her a live video of Father John Misty singing “when you’re smiling and astride me,” and she knew as he was standing there, next to his wife, it was her hips he saw astride him. Her lips he saw smiling.

She turned the phone’s volume higher. The “oh oh ohs” bouncing between her headphones matching the rhythm of her heartbeat.

She grabbed her breasts and arched her back.

Her pussy was throbbing. It seemed to have a pulse, a beat of its own, and every part of her wanted to crescendo to the lift of the music and the wondered of his touch.

Behind her closed eyes she saw his face hovering above her stomach, his hands on her breasts, and as she pictured his head dipping between her thighs, she slid one finger inside.

Wet heat. Her eyes grew wide at the feel of herself. How just the wondered of him could make her feel flooded in every way.

She circled her middle finger around her clit, back and forth, around and around.

Her knees were wide open, her back arched, her left hand gripping her breast tightly.

She ascended up the mountain, her breath and pace quickening.

The music lifted her there. The dream of one day feeling him inside her again. His lips on her lips. His tongue inside her, bringing her to the pinnacle.

She reached the top of the peak, her knees shaking, her head driving into her pillow, his name in every exhale.

NSFW: yes

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