Smooth, silken, firm flesh, dragged around the sloshing mouth like a rat in the gutter. Hard and yielding. Twitching like a trapped nerve, absorbed in the gaping cavern. It waves like a branch and I long for it so much. Constantly fascinate by its pulsating form. Its warmth and its bulbous tip that leaks a creamy wretched mess from its spout in the moments of pleasure. I suck it soaking and clean and wet it and dry it again. I slobber on it like a dog. I choke on it, dragging out the thick, dank spit from deep in my sinus. I am tearful in my gratitude and my lust. Greedy and tasting and savoring. Pink lips 'Oh' like a song around this tool of giving pleasure and enticement.
And there is a feeling of being at home, in my actions.
Safe in the frequency and memory of past plays and familiarity.
It is tradition and repetition, I have been here before.
The smell drowns the senses, the sight of the flesh, the taste of the skin. The mess I'm in now is satisfaction in vintage white.
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