Such softness and precision, working with so much intent against that sensitivity. This is the very element of sex, to devour such beauty, to tirelessly feast yet never once be full, always hungering for more. There is no moan, no scream, no word, that could ever signify that it is ‘enough’.

Every delicate, intimate fold of that sex, every calculated flutter of that tongue, so many details all hidden by such erotic contact. Only the most sensual pressure, skin against skin, lips against lips. 

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It’s that single moment I want to see, the moment your orgasm is signalled through your eyes. That fleeting second of desperation as you try to look at me, as if you are trying to tell me that the pleasure you are a breath away from feeling is going to be too much to handle if my fingers keep going like this. That moment just after when your body climaxes, but your mind has that millisecond of control, how I can see it in your eyes, trying to focus then suddenly being overcome. 

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The pure, undeniable eroticism of what we both intend. To know exactly how your dress so finely details those enticing curves of your femininity, how you know that the moment I see you, I’ll instantly be thinking of stripping you of it to reveal those delicate delights. The sheer sensuality of it, to always think that every time we are so close, only such thin segments of fabric separate us from what we truly desire.

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