Do you ever let your thoughts stray to me? In the daytime, when you find yourself alone and your mind unoccupied? In the nighttime, when the soft shadows fall across your bed, across your languid, supine form?
Are there nights when I slip into dreams that have no business being?
Confess: are you tempted to caress yourself in those moments—public, private—when I find a way to invade your thoughts? Do you ever yield to that temptation?
Do you?
What are you wearing right now? Tell me.
In my mind, it’s something dark and perfectly tailored—perhaps a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up, or soft cotton boxers clinging just right. You always look devastating in the shadowed glow of my imagination. Dangerous and magnetic. A brooding figure straight out of Chandler, Spillane, Hammett—a hard-edged man whose quiet intensity no woman can resist.
When I’m there with you, whether it’s in a quiet office or a secluded bedroom, do I possess the power to make you yearn? Does my phantom presence leave you aching to be touched, to be consumed, to be taken? Have I made your cock strain with unrequited lust at so vast a distance?
Tell me: is it hard now? Stroke it slowly for me. Tease yourself through the fabric. Thrill to the sensation of your hand pressing against your length.
I want those boxers—or whatever you’re wearing—just as they are now. Damp with the first drops of your arousal; fragrant with your desire.
Would you like me to taste you through them, while you’re still wearing them? To lick along your hardness, to feel you throb against my tongue through the thin barrier of cloth? And once the fabric is soaked and can hold no more, to slip my fingers beneath the waistband, draw it down, and reveal your cock to my hungry gaze… feeling my warm breath on your exposed skin, knowing I can see every pulse, every vein?
And then to take you into my mouth, my tongue swirling around you. Tasting you. Savoring you.
I think you’d like that. I think you’d thrust gently into my mouth, that you’d groan and curse and call my name as my lips slid over you, as I cupped your balls, as I sucked your head, as I took you deep into my throat.
I want to do that.
Oh, to feel you swell against my tongue, to taste the salt of your skin, to explore every last sensitive inch of you.
And what do you want? To feel my fingertips trace up the backs of your thighs as I push your legs wider? To feel the wet heat of my tongue circling the head of your cock? To feel my fingers stroke your shaft while my mouth teases the tight ring below?
Do you dream of me making your nerves ignite in that way?
Are you aroused now? Are you hard? Do you ache to be inside me, to bury your cock deep in my warmth?
I need that. To feel you stretch me, to take you fully. To feel how hard you are for me, to have you fill me with the heat of your lust. To hear you tell me—without words—how desperately you need to come, that you have to come or you’ll lose your mind.
I so want you to fuck me. To press my nakedness back against the warmth of an immense bed, to feel you pin my wrists above my head, to part my thighs with your own and guide your cock between my slick folds, then thrust slowly but powerfully inside me. To hear you command me to open wider, to take you deeper. To feel me lift my legs, wrap them around your waist, pull you in until there’s nowhere left for you to go.
I want you to show me everything you need, even if you don’t utter a single word.
So tell me one last thing: where are your thoughts now?
