Let me tell you a little story. A story about a woman who liked to read. Not spy novels or romantic literature. Not books about quilting or cooking. She didn’t try to learn a new language or find out about far away places. However, like most forms of reading she did try to stimulate her mind. To discover new things. To expand her horizons.
This woman liked to read about things that would make her heart beat out of her chest. That variety that made her short of breath and looking around to see if anyone was watching. She loved to read the kinds of things that would make her hand move between her legs and find her lips soaked in her own juices.
She knew that it was something good when she couldn’t stop reading and at the same time couldn’t stop touching herself. She needed to know what would happen next in the story. Would it go in the direction she was hoping for or would there be a surprise? Maybe it would be something even more exciting than she imagined. All the while she would run her hands over her breasts. Pinch her hard nipples. Plunge her long fingers between her wet lips.
She would try to read for as long as she could. Attempting to hold herself back. Building up the tension. Not yet. Just that little bit longer. But then at a certain point the book would fall to the ground and she would take her body to ecstasy, giving in to her needs. And depending on how good the read was she would pick up the book once more, keep reading and do it all over again.
She was an enthusiastic reader, this woman. The more she read the more she wanted to do it. She had an insatiable appetite for the written word and all the feelings it gave her. When her mind was stimulated, her body followed!
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