I'm home now.
My last message irrelevant and mundane compared to what I now have in mind. My last message lies unread as will this until the morning. Will it be discarded like unsolicited junk mail lying under letterbox by the door - destined for a cursory glance and then a swift disposal? or is its destiny to stimulate a waking mind? I hope the latter.
I'm lying here - alone - and my manhood is occasionally illuminated by the car headlights passing by, their light creeping by rhythmically like a lighthouse sweeping its glare across the sea.
I think to her pictures. Her mouth engulfing a hard mass, her nipple ring elegantly hanging down. I can almost taste metal on my tongue as I picture scooping and dropping it with my tongue. My penis starts to twitch, to stretch, to lengthen as my hand feels it's natural impulse to descend. I think back to earlier messages and a tapestry forms. My mind is a seamstress as I think on.
Would she press back against me if she felt my length against her?
Would she part her legs?
Would she invite my touch?
The end of my hardness glistens and is illuminated as another car passes.
It's time to stop typing.
I'm finished here, but elsewhere I'm just getting started |
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