Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time
I feel alive and the world I’ll turn it inside out, yeah
And floating around in ecstasy
So don’t stop me now don’t stop me
’Cause I’m having a good time, having a good time
I’m a shooting star, leaping through the sky
Like a tiger defying the laws of gravity
I’m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva
I’m gonna go, go, go
There’s no stopping me
I’m burnin’ through the sky, yeah
Two hundred degrees
That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit
I’m traveling at the speed of light
I wanna make a supersonic woman out of you
My feet are propped up on an ice chest as I begin to draft a new piece to make your honey drip. I sip on an apricot La Croix with visions of a brunette olive-skinned submissive, consuming my mind as she has for the better part of the best part of my memory.
The lake off in the distance looks like a million tiny diamonds dancing around, and the last sunlight of the day is quickly leaving. I take my sunglasses off and the cool pacific air moves eastward. Soon, the skies will become a shade of orange, which has become my favorite part of each and every day, since of course, I heard your love by way of Alexi Murdoch.
I am thinking of you in a sinful way.
I want to do bad things to you.
This is all made much more clear through recollections of the look in your eyes as you peak and shudder when my fingers are inside you, and my mouth is over your clit. Recalling when my tongue is working magic, flicking away while I reach inside you and play your G spot like I am Beethoven, peering up with sinister eyes while I make a supersonic woman out of you.
It’s that look in your eyes that kills me.
It’s the sounds that accompany the look.
It’s the shudder, that accompanies the sounds.
It’s the honey drip, that accompanies it all.
I don’t think you completely realize it, but it’s like fuel, to push me further and further, feeding my engine so I can burn right through the sky.
At that moment, I am Mr. Fahrenheit, looking up at you as I consume one more of your orgasms. I try to convince myself that I need “just one more,” but as soon as I get it, I become thirsty for another. This goes on and on and on, while your legs are spread, kitty is full with whatever I can stuff it with at the moment, which is usually these fingers I type magic with.
I look into your soul and gain this immense sense of freedom when I see you spin right out of control. Most times I ask myself, “what does this do to you? What does it actually feel like, to be you?”
I can’t imagine cumming a dozen times in succession; it has to be blissful hell.
Legs spread wide, my mind is consumed with these thoughts as I dip my tongue inside your hole, leave it there stationary, so I can saturate my tongue with your sinful juicy salt and allow you some temporary recovery before I break you down one more time.
We both know that I am a filthy son-of-a-bitch.
I want my beard dripping your cunt’s viscosity when I am through with you. I want your wetness running down my neck, cascading to my chest, to create rivers of your lust across my hairs when I kiss you.
I crave your salt. I need you to lick your salt off my face. I need to lick the remnants of it from your face. Hunting my prey now, there are no bounds of my passion when I have your scent. Poor little thing, you are a helpless victim facing a hungry wolf.
A swift hand across your ass to ensure my marks remain. I grip your hair to scare you wet. Your neck in my palm, as I squeeze hard, and then shove my hard cock deep inside you.
Making you squirm and wiggle like I stuck your finger in a light socket, I rub your poor little clit while I fuck you into next week and I see it in your eyes that you cannot take it any longer.
“Dear God,” your eyes speak to me.
The thighs squeeze inward and the best one hits you like a tidal wave. I flood you and spoon feed you our lust. Visions become memories; memories become writings; writings feed visions.
Go ahead, little one. Touch your little kitty in anticipation.