Sext Analysis

Every line I try to write twitches from my fingertips, lengthens in front of me, hardening until it’s your gorgeous tool and deep inside of me again, again, and again. Every lyric half-rhymed when it’s a collage of sensation images throbbing through my body, the dripping folds of my imagination, the lashes of my spine, the fluttering lids of my pussy as I gaze up at you…your hands upon my breasts, patient and persistent, mounding them into peaks, playing them like an instrument or toy that moans and rises beneath you… those hands on my breasts rolling, pinching, sucking, squeezing… until they submit to you entirely. My mouth open in shock as I realize I am that toy, this is my body submitting… and even as I begin to whirl and buck and scream, still you continue… Every sentence. Fragmented. You pushing yourself in. out. touching my. And how many times can I pause in a paragraph to touch myself, cumming imagining you inside of me, filling my mouth, as I draw you into me, piece by piece. As I fall away, piece by piece. And I know I shouldn’t text you, not again, you’re in a meeting…