I’m Going To Make You Wish You Never Met Me

Photo by Corin Andrade from Pexels

I have seen this before — I know what I am talking about.

You see, I have a tendency to crawl inside your head and stay there awhile. To set up camp, stake a claim, and homestead, as long as I want. So I am warning you, Miss Touchy, that I am not for the faint of heart.

Like an amoeba in a Florida swamp, I am dangerous because I am inside you before you ever know it, consent never coming into play, and when you realize it has happened, it’s too late — I already have you.

So, I am warning you now, maybe stay away from the water.

But you just can’t help it, can you?

It’s just so miserable and hot outside, and the water looks so nice and refreshing. Outside, it is muggy and uncomfortable, but in here, it’s nice and wet, and I signify something different.

I represent relief.

Relief, from your mundane boring status quo. Relief, from your existing unfortunate love life. Relief, as you crawl down onto your knees and hand me your submission, begging me for all I give, and what I give, just happens to be all of me.

It’s not so much the fact that I will listen to your worries and pains, which I will. To hear you, like nobody ever listened before. Or that I will make tears run down your face from constant laughter, as I act a fool so that I can make your pretty face light up because I genuinely love to see you smile. Or that you will feel like a shining star in my presence, for I am, as passionate as you will ever find.

The dominant you so ache to submit to. The romantic, who yanks your fucking hair and puts you on a pedestal when he does it.

I’m warning you princess; this dance with me is a bit of a rattlesnake.

There will come a point where you give everything over and do it with pride.

But…then, then comes the lynchpin.

It is those damn words. Every single night, opening your app to hear the pictures I paint, snatching your ability to deny me after this. The words — they sink your battleship far too easily. It’s not that I will write delicious material for the world to see, and you will say, ‘that’s my man’. It is not that when I write of you, that you find it as the way you need to cum now, unable to stop touching your kitty to the pictures I paint.

It’s that you will tell yourself you are the “her” in the story, and I, the “he”.

So be careful, because soon I’ll ask you to jump and you’ll say “how high?”

But for now, just rub for me, Miss Touchy. Keep going until you are at the edge of the water. It looks so refreshing, doesn’t it? The edge, I say, in case you didn’t hear me.

It is so much better than the weather elsewhere. Trust me, it definitely is.

But like I said, just don’t think about it much and instead, just touch. Imagine a bearded man, brown stubble mixed of salt and pepper, green eyes, a wicked smile, and a shaved head. Right now he is just typing away, but you know his best state is staring up at you with his mouth over your cunt.

So, imagine and please touch when you do. Go ahead now, I am giving you permission now.

Not to cum yet, but touch.

You are the “her”, remember? She is getting handed the most intense sequence of orgasms of her life, and he is barely breaking a sweat. Standing over her with his fingers deep inside you, pressing into your cervix with his cock in your backside, watching you cum like you are getting shock therapy.

So go ahead, Miss Touchy, and a little faster now.

Bald head. Salt and pepper beard. Hazel eyes.

Eats pussy like he was born for it.

Now cum. Permission granted.