When I touch myself next, I’ll think of you, staring with hard, blue eyes, shiny with desire and something animalistic. I know I’d be caught in your gaze – afraid to look away and terrified not to. Your stare penetrates deeper than your cock ever will.
When I touch myself next, I’ll spread my legs a little wider than necessary, knowing how you desire what is Yours. I’ll lick my lips remembering the taste of yours. I’ll think of the smirk you wear as blood flows and pools, causing swollen, pink lips and petals.
When I touch myself next, my fingers will expose the hardening flesh of my clit. Hissing between my teeth as I graze sensitive flesh, I’ll remember how your tongue feels against my body. I’ll hear your groans of pleasure and delight in mind, reliving the memory of gushing fluid flowing down your face and throat.
When I touch myself next, my hips will rise to meet pumping, fucking fingers, wishing desperately for your hands instead of my own. I will revel in the sound of flesh slapping wet flesh, the squelching sounds will be music to my ears. I’ll remember the rumbles of satisfaction from your throat each time you hear the sloppy wet sounds of my cunt.
When I touch myself next, I will screech and squeal, moan and groan as I orgasm. The room will fill with noises that no longer sound human as I struggle against sensations that threaten to overpower me. I’ll hear your voice in my mind whispering, “Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”
When I touch myself next, I will think of you and miss you desperately.