Her pussy, hairy and trimmed, was visible. The hair, blonde and fine, covered the lips. The slit, tight and closed, was pink. The interior, hidden, was a mystery that my fingers were about to solve.
My hand moved. My middle finger, extended, found the slit. The tip, pressing against the lips, traced the length. From the top, where the clit hid beneath its hood, to the bottom, where the entrance waited.
She trembled. Her whole body shook. Her hands, on my chest, were vibrating.
"You are dry," I said. The observation, clinical and casual, was accompanied by the motion of my finger. The tip, circling the entrance, found no moisture. The walls, tight and unprepared, were dry. "Should I make you wet?"
She grabbed my wrist. Both hands, wrapping around my arm, tried to stop the motion. The grip, firm and desperate, was the grip of a woman who was fighting a losing battle.
