Dear V

Recently, I found myself imagining, for the better part of two hours, your mouth on my cock. The perfect way your head responds to my guidance – whether gentle or firm. The way your tongue swirls and presses on all the most sensitive bits. The way your lips fit – preternaturally perfectly – on my shaft, and how they glide softly up and down. The way your hands touch me, gently, firmly (if they’re not behind your back, or tied, or cuffed). The way your mouth elicits, and catches, my cum.

The way your pretty eyes stare up at me, hungrily.

And especially, the remarkably fetching way in which you beg for my cock.

It was a remarkable two hours.

Not V. Obvs.

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