3-in-1
When I think about you here I feel it burning through my veins. It burns so bad, like an itch, you know? Like them thar mosquito bites that are so harmless until you itch and itch and open the skin. At least the pain is something aside from the urge to itch. Choo know, mang?
How do I describe how you make me feel? When you discover you're afraid of your own health, you reach a special kind of understanding that feels hopeless and empowering all at once. No one can help or take that kind of frame of thought from you.
How do I describe this holding pattern that I'm in?
I'd rather pretend I was dead. Not for long, mind you. I love smells, but death juice isn't terribly erotic. Dead enough to be that weird kind of warm that you know won't last. Where you're not sure if you're imagining the head at this point or whether maybe it may even be your heat warming the husk...
It's here. Eyes sunken and frozen, staring back at you, unblinking, a fly on my hair... It's here where I want you to get a hard-on. Erect against your will.
Let's go further and say I'm washed up on the beach. Seaweed woven through my hair like some terrible new fashion of clip-on dreadlocks, sand in my pubes, skin the colour of stone, lips the colour of the water.
So peaceful. Flesh so soft and pliant. And as you fuck me, it's like you're fucking the ocean. The stench of dead fish, water gushing and staining your pants where they are pulled down and gathered at your knees, it's so cold you would hardly be able to keep wood if the visual of you fucking the ocean wasn't so arousing.
When you close your eyes, breathing on you, whispering things in your ear, urging you on, arms wrapping around you. When you open your eyes, you realize your fucking me so hard, you're forcing my diaphragm to move, pushing hair through my lips on your ears as a bystander pulls you back and off me, disgusted. You vomit. Not out of disgust, but out of ecstasy. How exquisite, you think to yourself as they call the cops on your perverted ass. How amazing to hold and be held without being judged. And as I narrate, know this. I'm judging you.
When I think about you here I feel it burning through my veins. It burns so bad, like an itch, you know? Like them thar mosquito bites that are so harmless until you itch and itch and open the skin. At least the pain is something aside from the urge to itch. Choo know, mang?
How do I describe how you make me feel? When you discover you're afraid of your own health, you reach a special kind of understanding that feels hopeless and empowering all at once. No one can help or take that kind of frame of thought from you.
How do I describe this holding pattern that I'm in?
I'd rather pretend I was dead. Not for long, mind you. I love smells, but death juice isn't terribly erotic. Dead enough to be that weird kind of warm that you know won't last. Where you're not sure if you're imagining the head at this point or whether maybe it may even be your heat warming the husk...
It's here. Eyes sunken and frozen, staring back at you, unblinking, a fly on my hair... It's here where I want you to get a hard-on. Erect against your will.
Let's go further and say I'm washed up on the beach. Seaweed woven through my hair like some terrible new fashion of clip-on dreadlocks, sand in my pubes, skin the colour of stone, lips the colour of the water.
So peaceful. Flesh so soft and pliant. And as you fuck me, it's like you're fucking the ocean. The stench of dead fish, water gushing and staining your pants where they are pulled down and gathered at your knees, it's so cold you would hardly be able to keep wood if the visual of you fucking the ocean wasn't so arousing.
When you close your eyes, breathing on you, whispering things in your ear, urging you on, arms wrapping around you. When you open your eyes, you realize your fucking me so hard, you're forcing my diaphragm to move, pushing hair through my lips on your ears as a bystander pulls you back and off me, disgusted. You vomit. Not out of disgust, but out of ecstasy. How exquisite, you think to yourself as they call the cops on your perverted ass. How amazing to hold and be held without being judged. And as I narrate, know this. I'm judging you.
dragonflower:
wow. incredible.
ian_g:
So hot. 