Imagine being in a meeting at work, trying to focus on the matters at hand but all you can think about are his hands. You’re watching the way he sits and you’re paying close attention to the bulge in his pants. Rather than considering charts and graphs, you’re considering how many ways you can put your pussy on his mustache. It’s probably soft. It covers his lips like a white, feathered filled duvet.
After imagining him suck your heart thru your vaginal cavity, you switch positions. Still unaware of what ever it is you’re supposed to be listening to, you can see yourself riding is cock. He’s such an old fuck but old, you know like the best bottle of whiskey. The thought of it makes you chuckle but no one seems to notice. You squeeze your thighs tight and pull your pelvic floor towards your cervix.
You’re gonna climax. Right here. Right in this meeting. All over the cock poking through his pressed khaki pants.
This is going to be short. Bare with me for a few. I’ve been writing and not posting. I thought I was feeling better but it seems that my work is still in a dark place.
Some of you may notice, as you travel through the the site that some of my random thoughts were reposted. This was, of course, done in error.
I’ve longed for sexual freedom for quite some time but I haven’t felt confident enough to free myself. Nevertheless, even if I were confident enough to find said freedom, I’m not sure it would heal what hurts.
My words are like caged birds.
Can we make love under the crackling thunder? The droplets of rain evaporate when they kiss our bare skin.
He said he’d buy me a collar then we’d do erotic things.
I wonder what those things include.
Would he instruct me to gracefully kneel and lift my hair?
As he fixes the collar to my neck, would his rough finger tips graze the tiny goosebumps on my nape?
Before he walks around to stand in front of me, lifting my chin so he can see me
Staring into my eyes so he can see us
Because I am now his submissive.
A reflection of his dominance,
A result of his care,
Remember when I started smoking? We smoked together. I used to spend the nights on the town and the days walking in the park before Mary Jane infiltrated my world. There were days the sun didn’t kiss my skin and nights the moon never got to meet the sun. We, instead, spent hours on the couch laughing over shotguns and zombies. We shared kisses infused with Hennessy and whiskey. Fresh herb stained our lips. What a life.
Our taste is on the tip of my tongue; our scent lingers on my lips and nose. A tingle remains on my backside to remind me of the way you popped my ass to correct my arch. I want to please you in every way.
I’m feeling antsy in this heat. I should be in the nude. Your hands should be fixed in the crooks of my knees. My knees should be pressed into ribs while your phallus massages my insides. The sound of coqui add to the soundtrack of our love making.
Let us recite our sacrilegious prayer. It’s the one we share prior to commencing congress. You give thanks to our higher power for giving me your rib. I give thanks for the strength in your backbone. Our lips unite after we say ‘amen.’ You’re delicious. Stroke me.
Lay up with me under clouds of weed smoke. Your fingers part my lips while you kiss the other pair.
Drunken with dusty feet, I stumbled to the rooftop with my shoes in hand. The wind whispered, “Jump & you will fly!” To which I replied, “Jump & I’ll surely die.” The cool summer rain soothed my burning skin.