Remy Loves Sara

The fantasy starts simple: a girl who still looks untouched holding a strap-on big enough to make my breath catch. I plan to teach her myself. First I'll bend her over, part her cheeks, and run my tongue along that small hole the way I want it done to me later. Slow, wet laps—nothing rushed—so she feels exactly where the sensation lives. Then I'll slide a slim toy inside her, generous with lube, easing each inch while I watch how her spine arches when she likes it deeper. I study every flicker of her hips, every sigh she gives. When her body is slick and ready, I lay on my stomach and hand the harness over. I show her the angle, tell her to go slow until the thick crown stretches me. Warm lube trails down my skin and she presses in, deliberate, inch by inch. The stretch burns, then melts into heat that pools low in my belly. I want her to savor how tight I feel, how my body grips and opens. Each gentle thrust after that is her reading the map I just drew with my tongue and the toy. No rush, just wet friction and the faint slap of skin until the room fills with our breathing and the soft sound of lube working between us.