Tag Archives: all for our pleasure

what makes me hunger…


for you.

like only you can…

While I ride your face, feel your cock harden… surprise me. Flip me around and fill my open mouth with your full and throbbing hard. Fuck my face as you eat me, deeply. Let me choke on how much  you need my warm throat.

In return, my clit will grind against your tongue and teeth. Hear me moan. Feel my every quake, and gyrate. Carry me beyond. Watch my exceptional cunt flush and squirt. Feel my hot mess spill all over you but don’t cum yet; I’m far from done. In fact, lover… we’ve just begun.


excerpts from the once-blind…

A man once told me that I make the trees turn on.
My presence, a switch that illuminates
his dark world, making it brighter and alive.
But his words, like so many others, were hollow —
mere shadows of the same dark,
delusions of an escape he hid inside.
His fear of freedom was
an echo I chose not to hear.

Stories like this, I wish weren’t true. I wish such stories weren’t mine. The ones I care about now feature you. Stories that promise more hours in a day to hear you cum. Stories that feature me climbing on top of you and sliding your cock inside, all the way to its meaty end. Where I bend over and you, on your knees, push your tongue between my lines and suckle me into tears of writhing, wanton pleasure.

Just like you’ve done before.
But more.
And again.

When you touch me, let me look. Let me watch pleasure overtake your jawline. When you kiss me, let me tremble with you. Let my pussy soak my panties before you undress me. When you moan with me, let me grip your thickening cock with the urgency I feel. Let me lick my lips in preparation to please you. Let me be my own light while you bask in your own – our skin entwined, ever-curious.


Don’t be afraid.
Don’t lie to me.
Don’t confuse me with someone
who is nothing without you,
is blind, afraid enough to possess you
or just walks away.

I’m not her.
Even when I forget to be…
I’m only and ever me.

curious girl…

curious girl

She was a curious girl,
Who loved the smell
of old books,
chasing butterflies
and touching herself
under the covers.

— Michael Faudet —


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