When I write, I think I must slow my mind down enough so that I may piece together a singular thought; one that is prevalent within me at the moment. It comes out as if spoken, or I least I hope it does, yet it’s hacked away into an iPhone with sloth-like velocity.
Nevertheless, the feeling prevailing within me at the moment is the ache for your taste.
To say I am horny would be an understatement. I think if this gets any worse I’ll end up rubbing my dick on the sofa arm – she does look tempting after all, with that sexy leather and all.
Goddamnit – I fucking want you.
Kicking those legs back, looking up at your face to see that “oh, fuck, he has that look in his eye” fear/excitement. You know it all too well now, don’t you?
My eyes like daggers and my tongue like Excalibur, I am going to make you squirm if it kills me to do it. Your clit is my bitch now. I want my beard saturated in your taste, soaking me with your liquid excitement as I fucking take you, make you mine again, but it’s not like you never were.
I am setting up camp down here so when you lean back the next time I sure fucking hope you remember this aggression in my voice because it’s just getting worse. Each character I type might as well be one more flick on your clit coming to a boil.
Your pussy is mine.
Your taste is what I ache for and I will have it soon, so I hope your kitty just got drenched because I don’t give two flying fucks what roadblocks I have to overcome to get there.
Also published on Medium.