The deleted drafts

Christy,

If I may be blunt, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met yesterday.

Your elegant beauty is rivaled only by your intellect and charm. It takes a special type of person to find humor in b2b exports distribution methodologies. I find myself smitten by your ability to relate to the overhanging inconsequentiality of it all — an existential crisis I’m confronted with every day, if not every moment, that I regrettably find myself awake at work.

During our meeting, I stole more glances at your face, your neck, your cleavage, than you’d be comfortable knowing. I’m sure you must have felt some of them — my eyes searching past your business hours. As much as I wanted to know your skin, I wanted also to know you. What parts of a movie would you find funny? What do your groggy morning eyes look like when they first open and remember your life up to that moment? What gets you off?

Last night I masturbated to a vivid visualization of your lavish breasts — undoubtedly supple and soft-skinned (especially on the bottom half), having logged most of their waking hours sheltered inside silky designer bras. Your nipples would erect to my touch. Your areola would host goosebumps. During my feverish fapping, I visualized my practiced restraint against squeezing your breasts too hard. I knew that anything more than a warmly firm cusp would compromised your comfort in our time of pleasure.

I would want to squeeze harder. I would want to squeeze your tits until their softness bulged, gasping between my greedily-spread fingers. As my fantasy, it would have been easy to take it there — to imagine squeezing until you cried out with alpha-male-submitting pain. But even in the heaviest moments of my session I practiced the prioritization of your pleasure. It took more mental effort than I care to explain, but I was loyal to you in avoiding the satisfaction of my own selfish, burning desire: to experience your tactile flesh resisting and microscopic blood vessels bursting at the bequest of my own beckoning hands.

Even the slight sourness of breath that escaped your breakfast-skipping mouth was a testament to your beauty. As an unspoken rule, nobody seems to mind (and indeed some, such as myself, seem even to embrace) the smell of their own otherwise foul bodily stenches. I’ve never experienced an extension of pardonable malodor until our meeting yesterday morning. I found myself needing your hollow, caffeinated exhalations to cross my nose. I craved to know your humanness in the way a lost man is desperate to know god. Could this be a hint to what love is?

Your delicate fingers tickled your laptop’s keys with the dexterity of a seamstress. My heart sank when I noticed your ring. Lacking the ostentatiousness of a full-blown wedding ring (which, for a woman as beautiful as you, a man would surely be proactive in providing ample carats), it still shimmered with the eagerness and young love that is fiancéeship.

I dread the thought of another, more worthy man in your life. Does he embrace your every flaw? Is he overcome with dizziness from your very existence? Does he love your being with an untamed ferocity?

Sam Evans | Regional Operations Manager

O. (303) 799–4256 (x3312)

M. (720) 656–9268

Regal Operations, LLC | Growing Businesses.

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