Mother Daughter Exchange Club #18

We didn't touch again until March 21st, 2011. Her skin still smelled of hotel soap. She walked straight to the edge of the bed and stripped without ceremony, and I watched the neat pull of muscle under her ribs. The light from the window caught the fine hair on her forearm, the pale curve of hip she angled just slightly away from view, like an afterthought. She climbed over me without waiting for permission. Her knee pressed between my thighs. She lowered herself slowly, hissing through her teeth when she took me in. For a moment neither of us moved. We stayed like that—her weight, the tremor in her arms, the wet heat gripping every inch—until I gripped her waist and pulled her the last inch down. She exhaled hard and began to move. Not fast. A steady grind, hip bones dragging across my skin, pelvis circling in tight, careful strokes. Sweat gathered at the base of her spine. Her mouth fell open on the third pass. She reached behind, fingers sliding between us to feel the stretch, the slick drag, the push and give of her own body accepting me again and again. I watched every inch of it. Watched her breast sway with each roll of her hips. Watched the muscles in her stomach clench and release. Watched her jaw tighten when she leaned forward and started to take it deeper. She came without warning, spine locking, head dropping, nails digging into my ribs. I could feel the small, internal tremors gripping me, rhythmic and helpless. When she finally breathed out, it sounded half-laugh, half-curse. Then she opened her eyes and started moving again, harder, impatient now.