Not Even Remotely Sick

I finally had the apartment to myself, so I stripped down, slid my remote-controlled vibrator deep into my dripping pussy, and cranked it up, letting the pulsing waves build me toward an explosive orgasm. My body was on fire, hips grinding against the sheets, when suddenly the door clicked open—my roommate Bea was home early. Panic hit me like a truck; I yanked the blanket over my naked, toy-stuffed body just in time. Bea spotted me in bed, cheeks flushed, sweat glistening on my skin, and her eyes widened with concern. "Allie, are you sick? You look feverish!" Before I could stammer an excuse, she perched right on the bed's edge—smack on the remote I'd stupidly left under the blanket. The vibrator roared to life inside me, throbbing relentlessly against my G-spot, sending shockwaves of unwanted pleasure ripping through my core. I bit my lip bloody, thighs clenching to stifle the moans bubbling up as Bea leaned in, her hand on my forehead, cooing about soup and meds. Every shift of her ass ground the remote harder, the toy buzzing my clit from the inside out, my juices soaking the sheets. My nipples ached, pussy clenching greedily around the intruder, orgasm coiling tighter despite my desperation to hold back. Finally, I couldn't take it—I threw off the blanket, the vibrator still humming visibly in my slick folds. "Bea, I'm not sick... I'm fucking myself, and you just turned it up to max!" Mortified, I apologized profusely, but Bea’s eyes darkened with lust, not shock. "No, babe, I should be the one apologizing for ruining your fun." Her fingers trailed my thigh as she grinned wickedly. "Let me make it up to you—spread those legs and let me eat that pussy until you scream."