Memory or fantasy?

Do as I say.

I want to press my face into your jeans, to feel how hot your cunt is in anticipation of what I’m about to do to it.

I want to slide your jeans down, off your legs, over your ankles to reveal your thighs, your knees.

I want to force your knees wide apart, to expose your cunt, covered by your panties, to the air, to my gaze.

So many questions I want answered. But not with words.

A stumble is worth a thousand words.

She picks up where I left off — with all the details I left out.

Ice, wax, and a splayed 20-something — and then a pause to reckon with everything that means.

V tells her side of the story, starting with bourbon, buttons, and a text at 10:01.

A evening of teasing, denial, and a loud orgasm on a quiet street.

A midday visit, a pencil skirt, a conference call, and the question of when, exactly, to start fingering her.

A fantasy sketch I wrote the day of my date with Véronique — a little study in anticipation, control, and a blue Honda with the engine running.