Erotica

I want to tell you what to do. I want to tell you what to wear. I want you to say “yes” to me.

She asked me, mid-blowjob, what I like so much about having my cock sucked. It’s a harder question than you might think.

The memory of the Historian’s mouth on my cock haunts me, and the night ended on a Brooklyn block transformed into the 19th century.

Our relationship had become three-dimensional, and fucking was off the table. I was damned if I was going to let that stop me.

The anticipation of what’s to come is almost better than the coming.

I eat your pussy because I’m hungry, not because I’m generous.

You’ve heard it before. But you’re wet, and you’re dressed as I asked, and you don’t see me yet.

The final installment of this particular fantasy — in which she finally gets the words right.

You didn’t listen the first time. You’ll learn.

The orgasm is mine, not yours.