I masturbate.
I think of you.
I cum.
… because there is this: your lips, your tongue, your fingers, your anything you want… tracing over these dips and waves of me. You trace me, leaving a trail. And I watch you. I fucking want you. My hands hold you – slip along your nape – and my fingers slide through your hair as you pass over me again. And again. My fingers grip your dewy tip, I cup the throat of your cock, choking it, gripping your heat; your shaft warms me. I know because I feel your heat mix with mine – slick, between my thighs and folds of my sweet cunt – it slides between my ass cheeks. I am like this for you. We will fuck soon. I want you to fill me as much as you want, as deep as you can, as hard and hungry as we must. I tug and spin my clever fingers around the head of your throbbing need and down, down, to your rock-hard base. Your balls fit perfectly in my hands. You are so beautiful.
I kiss you and bite your lip – my tongue, a foreshadow of what is to cum.
You moan and grow even more in my hands.
Oh, my juice… I am so wet. So fucking wet.
