Be Careful What You Wish For

To him:

If you were under the misapprehension that I don’t think about you a lot, I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong.

To me:

Tell me what you want me to do.

To him:

Be careful what you wish for.

I’m going to indulge your perverted brain, and tell you exactly what I want you to do.

The first thing is the anticipation. When you first see me, you can’t stop yourself from gathering me close, even as you somehow manage to resist kissing me with all the passion and the animalism that you suppress within. And as you hold your body against mine, I can feel you prodding, digging, pushing into my thigh. While the top half of you holds me captive, keeping me at bay, watching me panting with desire, your lower half betrays that said desire is very much shared.

Now show me. I love how proud you are of your physique, how you take every opportunity to show off that cute butt, and wiggle your manhood in my direction. Not that you taunt, rather that you flaunt. You preen. You strut. Like a peacock on a mission from god — and we both know what the real purpose of that mission is.

What comes next happens in the order of your own choosing; over which you allow me no control, and which shimmies and shimmers between various activities.

Will you slide yourself into my mouth?

Will you lubricate me with my own juices and explore the hot and wet cave that quivers at the merest touch of you?

Will you use an external lubricant, and penetrate me in that most intimate of places, owning and possessing me at your will, reducing me to a moaning and shuddering mass of girl-flesh?

You know exactly what I want you to do.

And when.

And how.

And each time, I love it more.

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