fun lays. It’s not like you’ve been all that happy with life lately. It’s just dull.
I mean, what makes her different from any other pussy out there?
Whatever it is, she makes me want things, different from what I’ve had, different from what I thought I wanted. Thing is…I’m not sure if I’m okay with that.
He hasn’t called me in three days, three long, miserable days. I haven’t been able to get him out of my head, his eyes, his beard, his plethora of tattoos with meanings only he understands. But mostly, I think about what it will be like once we finally have sex, how he’ll move above me, how his dick will feel tucked deep inside me. Yup, three long, miserable fucking days of that.
I want to call him, but I don’t want to seem clingy or eager. So, I wait. By day four, I’m sure I’ll never hear from him again. I’m not hurt anymore. I’m flippin’ furious.
When I arrive home from work, desperate to unwind, I spot a bright yellow envelope on the coffee table with big black pen marks scribbled across.
What in the…
I take the package into my bedroom and toss it on my bed, changing out of my work clothes before opening it up. My fingers rip through the paper and bubble wrap lining, eager to see what he sent me, pulling out a cd case.
He made me a mixtape? How very middle school.
I open up the case, pull out the disk, and take a seat at my desk, inserting it in my laptop and pressing play. I wait, but I don’t hear anything.
Then…
“Was he good to you?” This is no mixtape. I hear the sound of a zipper lowering. “Did he satisfy you?” I moaned out as he made contact with my pussy. “Did he know how you like to be touched? Did he know how you like to be fucked, baby?”
As the recording plays, I picture everything in my head, like watching a movie.
He moved his finger over my clit, flicking it just right. I threw my head back, letting out a gasp.
“No,” I breathed out.
“I know how to touch you, Lace. I know how to fuck you.” His other hand in my hair, he drove my face forward, staring deep into my eyes. “I’m going to satisfy you, baby.”
I find myself becoming aroused listening to his husky voice promise my pleasure, the sounds of my heavy breathing as he fingered my clit. Before I know it, my hands are sliding into my sweatpants, my fingers burying themselves between the folds of my pussy.
I think about how he worked me, strumming me like his fucking guitar. I listen to the sound of my erratic breathing, muffled by his mouth against mine. I can almost feel how my body wound up at his touch, like it’s tightening up now under my own greedy touch, until I exploded around his fingers.
He held my mouth against his, drinking in my euphoric cries.
I think of how he licked his digits clean, moaning as he tasted me.
“Damn, baby, that’s the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had,” he growled.
That’s all I can take, I cum fucking hard. I feel my juices dripping down my fingers, imagining they were his tongue lapping me up. As my orgasm fades, I get up and walk into my bathroom, washing my hands and thinking about him. I’m starting to really miss him, wishing desperately he were here with me.
Once my hands are clean, I walk back into my room, hearing his voice. “Can I play you something?”
“I’d love it.”
I lean against the doorframe, listening to the noises he made as he set up, the clearing of his throat, the plucking of slightly out of tune chords. Then he begins to strum the slow-tuned melody.
I lay on my bed, listening to the song he wrote just for me, Torn Lace. I shut my eyes and just take in the dark beauty of the music, easing into a state of relaxation.
When the last note fades, he’s says in a seductive voice, “You look hot in sweatpants.”
Huh?
I pop up, spotting him standing in my doorway, arms crossed, half-smirk on his incredible face.
“Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, eyeing him.
“I may have been.”
I mean, what makes her different from any other pussy out there?
Whatever it is, she makes me want things, different from what I’ve had, different from what I thought I wanted. Thing is…I’m not sure if I’m okay with that.
He hasn’t called me in three days, three long, miserable days. I haven’t been able to get him out of my head, his eyes, his beard, his plethora of tattoos with meanings only he understands. But mostly, I think about what it will be like once we finally have sex, how he’ll move above me, how his dick will feel tucked deep inside me. Yup, three long, miserable fucking days of that.
I want to call him, but I don’t want to seem clingy or eager. So, I wait. By day four, I’m sure I’ll never hear from him again. I’m not hurt anymore. I’m flippin’ furious.
When I arrive home from work, desperate to unwind, I spot a bright yellow envelope on the coffee table with big black pen marks scribbled across.
What in the…
I take the package into my bedroom and toss it on my bed, changing out of my work clothes before opening it up. My fingers rip through the paper and bubble wrap lining, eager to see what he sent me, pulling out a cd case.
He made me a mixtape? How very middle school.
I open up the case, pull out the disk, and take a seat at my desk, inserting it in my laptop and pressing play. I wait, but I don’t hear anything.
Then…
“Was he good to you?” This is no mixtape. I hear the sound of a zipper lowering. “Did he satisfy you?” I moaned out as he made contact with my pussy. “Did he know how you like to be touched? Did he know how you like to be fucked, baby?”
As the recording plays, I picture everything in my head, like watching a movie.
He moved his finger over my clit, flicking it just right. I threw my head back, letting out a gasp.
“No,” I breathed out.
“I know how to touch you, Lace. I know how to fuck you.” His other hand in my hair, he drove my face forward, staring deep into my eyes. “I’m going to satisfy you, baby.”
I find myself becoming aroused listening to his husky voice promise my pleasure, the sounds of my heavy breathing as he fingered my clit. Before I know it, my hands are sliding into my sweatpants, my fingers burying themselves between the folds of my pussy.
I think about how he worked me, strumming me like his fucking guitar. I listen to the sound of my erratic breathing, muffled by his mouth against mine. I can almost feel how my body wound up at his touch, like it’s tightening up now under my own greedy touch, until I exploded around his fingers.
He held my mouth against his, drinking in my euphoric cries.
I think of how he licked his digits clean, moaning as he tasted me.
“Damn, baby, that’s the sweetest pussy I’ve ever had,” he growled.
That’s all I can take, I cum fucking hard. I feel my juices dripping down my fingers, imagining they were his tongue lapping me up. As my orgasm fades, I get up and walk into my bathroom, washing my hands and thinking about him. I’m starting to really miss him, wishing desperately he were here with me.
Once my hands are clean, I walk back into my room, hearing his voice. “Can I play you something?”
“I’d love it.”
I lean against the doorframe, listening to the noises he made as he set up, the clearing of his throat, the plucking of slightly out of tune chords. Then he begins to strum the slow-tuned melody.
I lay on my bed, listening to the song he wrote just for me, Torn Lace. I shut my eyes and just take in the dark beauty of the music, easing into a state of relaxation.
When the last note fades, he’s says in a seductive voice, “You look hot in sweatpants.”
Huh?
I pop up, spotting him standing in my doorway, arms crossed, half-smirk on his incredible face.
“Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, eyeing him.
“I may have been.”
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