Written a while ago. I dont remember who or what I was responding to. The time stamp on the draft hasn't revealed any clues.
A response, which inspired me to write. You're down to fuck, and so am I. We can't take our eyes off each other. My body warms with each glance. I'm already there, wanting. I stand before you, silent, waiting. You, in a tshirt. Soft, damp from shower. Basketball shorts worn at 3pm. I'm ready for their dismissal. Take them off. I mentally tug at your waistband. I visually outline your greatness, your love below. I want it. Take them off. I'm rigid with anticipation. You will make me wait. Closer, still, no sound. I take a seat. You knock lightly at my door. Just a minute. I will let you in. Lower your lips close to my ears and whisper those things that make me wanna. Your eyes shutter like an f-stop. Capture these images: 1. of your hands gripping my thighs. 2. me, rising and falling like a cosine 3. turning me over, bending me further, me wanting you deeper. Punctuate me with exclamation marks as my thighs serve as a parenthetical to this erotic tale you tell between my legs. I hit return. My lips hang open mid-sentence, an ellipsis resting on the fullest parts. You taste. You want more. The aftershocks of
I wish I remembered who I was writing this to, and that I had the courage to send said response. #31writenow
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