cut-off jeans

07/03/2012

My body is dangerous. My cunt could snap shut at any moment like a guillotine and take your four fingers off at the knuckle, without warning. All i’d have to say for myself would be a giggle, a burp and a whistle scoped thru my open hands. Holler back, what?

I like the work required to attain my orgasms, when we do it like this. It requires me to make myself a little bit vulnerable, even, to fit you to me. There’s always that directorial aspect–yesyesyes, up, deeper, come on. RIGHT THERE, right there, right there. Don’t stop.

No really, don’t stop. There’s more coming. And you may have to switch hands to get to it, I know. But truly, I do not give a fuck if your wrist is sore in the morning–I want all of it tonite. No, scratch that because it’s already morning, and I want my eggs scrambled, but not fertilized–I want to imagine your fist jostling my ovaries with spasms of pleasure.

oh OH OH OH FUCK! There is a well that springs when i least expect it, soaking to the crotch of my bicycle saddle and revealing that I am indeed, freshly fucked, and that the pleasure is fine. all mine. Bruised perineum, beestung lips, rosy cheeks, slippery thighs, cut-off jeans.

I am not ashamed, couldn’t even be shamed if I tried–just this once, twice, moremoremore.

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