Damn! How's a girl supposed to get anything done with you around?
You are on my mind constantly, as if you didn't know. You creep into my thoughts during every unguarded moment. No more daydreams about running away to Tahiti. No more grandiose plans for publishing a best seller. No more deskside reveries about killing my boss, taking off to LA, killing my coworkers, winning an Oscar, Olivier Martinez, etc. There is one channel. Its all YOU. All the damn time.
To be fair, you ARE a wonderful guy in many respects, cute, sweet, funny, smart, etc. Who wouldn't want you? You're pretty much perfect. The perfect combination of tall, dark and goofy. Posso un po troppo per me.
But honestly, mostly, I think about what it would be like to touch you, kiss you, suck you, fuck you. All the damn time! Well, not all the damn time. Other times, I think about what it would be like to have you touch me, kiss me, suck me, fuck me.
And I am in utter A G O N Y. Cold showers. Serious books. Other boys. Hobbies. All worthless remedies.
The fact remains, I want you to kiss me. I want your big rough hands on me. I want you to give me beard burn. I want to see your face when you have an orgasm. I want you to bite me, push me around, cover me with your body, pull my hair, put your hands on my face.
When we sit together, I am nearly consumed by the thought of having my head buried in your crotch. Its all I can do to restrain myself from getting up and walking over to where you sit, kneeling before you and unzipping your trousers, reaching in and taking you into my hands before finally taking you into my mouth.
The idea of giving a guy a blow job never really turned me on before now. What I enjoyed about it before was mostly giving the guy pleasure. Now, I get wet at the very thought of doing that very thing to you. I just want to take you in and suck. I want to feel your hands clutching at my hair while I work on your knob. I want to hear you moan and feel your body spasm when you unload.
God help me. What the hell is wrong with me?
Sometimes, I catch myself looking at your package. Honestly. Who does that shit? Argh. Anyway, out of nowhere, I find myself dreamily contemplating your crotch. What do you look like under your clothes? What do you taste like? Are you long and thin? Are you thick? Are you wearing boxers or briefs?
I think about you pushing me down with one hand while impatiently trying to undo your zipper with the other. I think about you pushing up my skirt and pulling off my underwear. Then, your dear sweet face, with that look of intense concentration you sometimes get, leaning into me and kissing me while you slide into me. Your hands on my breasts. Your hot mouth on my neck. What would your face look like? Would you moan? Would it be loudly or softly? Would you mind that I moan loudly? Would you leave your socks on?
Damn. I am absolute toast if you ever find out. Like a fire, I fear you will totally consume me and I'll wind up a pile of ashes.