N. Likes

Isabel feasts on my cock – and comes – in New York’s now-defunct premier sex club.

I write a letter to a woman I haven’t met, and probably never will.

A friend’s writing about a woman on a bus, an impossibly large iced coffee, and the thrill of summer.

A woman on a train, maybe. Or in a meeting. Dressed to disappear, and failing.

Why do I lick your pussy? Let me count the ways.

A book appeared on my e-reader and I don’t know how it got there. The book itself begins the same way. I tore through it.

A woman, described.

Viagra says four hours is a medical emergency. I say it sounds like bliss.

A year of correspondence, less than an hour together, and she left flushed. We’re both still hungry.