Joy Button

Sometimes, when I’m bored and my insomnia has kicked in towards the far end of 3am, I surf Amazon for books. This is not a guilty pleasure. I stroke and placate its little search engine box to bring me the ripest of sex-capades, eyeing and sizing up the word packages. None of this Kindle bullshit. I want my treasures to smell of musk and ink. Pulling it out of the dusty cardboard box should be in unholy violation with penknife in hand, arm slick with sweat. The anticipation, the anxiety making my breathe abrupt and hard as I struggle with the packing tape and then the simple plastic lining. Some people get off with sex toys; I prefer a slow mind fuck. 
 
My bank account doesn’t take the thrust too lightly. I have two jobs to support my habit, but at night when the desktop in front of me is humming a secret song, I must have my erotica. It comes in every flavor and I don’t discriminate, my contacts go dry before I can take my eyes from the every growing numbers at my disposal. Millions of tiny delights to woo my pussy and win over it’s tight, loud orgasm.  

My tongue slips along my lips, pronouncing the titles out loud until I can’t take it anymore. Then I press the yellow nub of joy in the left hand corner, my golden “Buy” button. With each touch comes pleasure 

At times I’ve been known to wake the neighbors and get a cramp in both wrists. One holding the book a loft of my tiny, tight stomach while the other plucks at my clit. When there is a whole book to be had I find it’s better to take my time searching every orifice that’s within my realm. An uninhibited exploration worthy of any erotic heroine from along my tan thighs to my hips valley. I can feel the pulsation of need with every page turn. I’ve learned to fuck myself without pause as a thick cock or strap-on is rammed into a character that just didn’t see it coming. 

My nipples ache with need and I have time to tweak them not too hard or my eyes will cross and I’ll lose my sentence. Hard enough so my breathing grows heavy, palms sweating on the illustration. I swivel a hand from my breasts, tracing their arch with alabaster fingernails making white tracks along my tan to grab at my hip. An indent, a goose, a tease of the flesh before skirting down to circle my outer lips the way I’d want a tongue. An increase of pressure makes my hand shake, working myself up to climax and feeling the wetness smooth down my fingers making everything below the belt juicily workable. 

Circles of my fingernail like a comma stroke back and forth along my clit, soft, hard, soft, hard, indents with emphasis. My arm quivers as I struggle to keep the book level, to not close my half lidded eyes when goose bumps coat from neck to shoulder to wrist leaving a tingle that makes me gasp. Flicks of the pages with the quakes of my knees, hot liquid running down my thigh. At the end of the day the smell of me meshes into the pages along the wreaked binding. Every self memory night, afternoon, day. Breathe pants, the book falls, neck falls back on the pillow with a ragged yelp. The end. 

Satisfaction Guaranteed. 

Elise Hepner is an exciting new talent within the erotica genre, and with her website due to launch within a matter of weeks, we're sure to be seeing a great deal more of her. Stand by for an announcement when her online home goes live!