I shaved my landing strip for you. Lying in bed now, I trace. The impossible smooth of my mound wraps all the way around and through to wherever I imagine your mouth wants to travel. I trace myself, recalling the width of your hands—warm like my moan.
I don’t spread my legs; I cross them so that my sleek, bold clit upstages my miles-of-smooth. I squeeze my thighs tighter and pleasure shoots down my long, lean legs. I squirm just so. You know. And when I close my eyes, I see you looking at me, staring into my big brown eyes with a hunger that stirs me to my every tip.
I flush with heat, with longing for your hot exhale on my velvety red and pink and darkest softest parts… the breath that parts my waters, that soaks my bed, that makes my throat catch with pleasured cries of “More. Oh, my fuck, please. More.”
