She slid her finger down the moist crevice between her outer and inner labia, then back up the other side. More, God, she wanted more. She wanted it all, right now. Finesse disappeared. The tape had looped, she’d missed the moment Mary had disappeared and that made it easy to pretend that she hadn’t, that she wouldn’t, that it was her hand pumping deep into Tosh’s body, building desperate need into pulses of hot pleasure.
Tosh abandoned her breasts to paw her skirt up, trying not to lose the rhythm of her other hand. She shoved her knickers down until her fingers found damp curls, then delved into them to press against her clitoris, so swollen it verged on painful. She was close, so close to the edge now. She yearned towards it but wanted to hold it off forever, to stay in this place of trembling ecstasy where grief couldn’t touch her.
Almost without her volition, though, her hands fell into a fast-paced tempo. One stroking inside, one rubbing over her clitoris, each movement pushing her closer to orgasm. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her neck strained backwards, a keening whine built in the back of her throat. A thousand pictures of Mary flashed behind her squeezed-shut eyelids: blue eyes challenging her through smoky lashes, spine arched in blatant invitation while water ran over breasts, swollen lips parted in a gasp of sudden pleasure, hands running over the curve of a calf as she turned rubbing on lotion into something dirty, a tongue curling around the olive of a martini. Had she really collected that many mental snapshots? It had been such a short period of time to build so many memories.
She arced up against her hands. The damp air blew cool over her exposed breasts. Heat blossomed outward from her abdomen, shaking her. With a rush, white intensity blotted out her thoughts entirely. She gave a hoarse shout and froze, other than the involuntary jerking of her body.
A moment later it was gone. Reaction pinged over her skin, but she was aware now of being twisted into an uncomfortable, undignified knot, her hands shoved awkwardly into her knickers and her breasts flopping ridiculously over the top of her bra. On the screen Mary held a knife to her throat. She straightened her clothes as best she could and shut off the CCTV footage before Jack could send Mary to her death, again. Tears she didn’t remember shedding dried sticky on her cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe them off, grimacing at the strong smell of musk that clung to her fingers.
God, she was a mess. She was going to have to do something with the footage from this afternoon, loop some more innocuous footage over the top of it or something. And she should probably delete the tape she’d saved of the night she’d brought Mary into the Hub. Dwelling on it (on something that had never been what she thought it was, anyway) couldn’t be healthy. She smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt and promised herself again that this was the last time, then got up to fix her makeup.
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Forget Her (Torchwood, Toshiko) 2/2
Date: 2009-05-19 01:11 am (UTC)Tosh abandoned her breasts to paw her skirt up, trying not to lose the rhythm of her other hand. She shoved her knickers down until her fingers found damp curls, then delved into them to press against her clitoris, so swollen it verged on painful. She was close, so close to the edge now. She yearned towards it but wanted to hold it off forever, to stay in this place of trembling ecstasy where grief couldn’t touch her.
Almost without her volition, though, her hands fell into a fast-paced tempo. One stroking inside, one rubbing over her clitoris, each movement pushing her closer to orgasm. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, her neck strained backwards, a keening whine built in the back of her throat. A thousand pictures of Mary flashed behind her squeezed-shut eyelids: blue eyes challenging her through smoky lashes, spine arched in blatant invitation while water ran over breasts, swollen lips parted in a gasp of sudden pleasure, hands running over the curve of a calf as she turned rubbing on lotion into something dirty, a tongue curling around the olive of a martini. Had she really collected that many mental snapshots? It had been such a short period of time to build so many memories.
She arced up against her hands. The damp air blew cool over her exposed breasts. Heat blossomed outward from her abdomen, shaking her. With a rush, white intensity blotted out her thoughts entirely. She gave a hoarse shout and froze, other than the involuntary jerking of her body.
A moment later it was gone. Reaction pinged over her skin, but she was aware now of being twisted into an uncomfortable, undignified knot, her hands shoved awkwardly into her knickers and her breasts flopping ridiculously over the top of her bra. On the screen Mary held a knife to her throat. She straightened her clothes as best she could and shut off the CCTV footage before Jack could send Mary to her death, again. Tears she didn’t remember shedding dried sticky on her cheeks and she raised a hand to wipe them off, grimacing at the strong smell of musk that clung to her fingers.
God, she was a mess. She was going to have to do something with the footage from this afternoon, loop some more innocuous footage over the top of it or something. And she should probably delete the tape she’d saved of the night she’d brought Mary into the Hub. Dwelling on it (on something that had never been what she thought it was, anyway) couldn’t be healthy. She smoothed a wrinkle on her skirt and promised herself again that this was the last time, then got up to fix her makeup.