I just read one of your blog posts to cum.


My knees splayed wide, my wand’s vibrating head pressed neatly to my mound.

I imagined your mouth on me, your arm wrapped around my thigh, the other hand rimming my hole in arrhythmic pulses.

I clenched my muscles, pushed out, clenched again, wishing real fingers were there.

He might be next door by now, but my image of you will have to do. He will likely ignore the pictures I sent to him of me fingering myself, then licking my own deliciousness. Blue nails against a pink tongue, my nostrils filled with my own perfume. My eyes slightly glazed.

But you wouldn’t do that, Lover, would you? No, you’d race over at any opportunity and bury your face in my perfect, hungry pussy for days if I let you.

When I came just now I imagined him watching us and what he’d think about the tears spilling down my face. Tears you caused, not him. And of the sheen of my cunt on your face, how I’d kiss it off of you with my tears to help wash it away.

Please. You can be my new imaginary lover once he’s gone.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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