The end of the week, tired, pressured, but it’s my time now. A little food, a little wine, the incomparable joy of one’s own company. He’s not here, and though my congress with him is wonderful, there are times when nothing but the peace of self pleasuring will do. Things I’ve done with him, things I’ve done with others, and things I’ve never quite dared to suggest flit through my mind like ghosts of people I’ve not met but only dreamed of.
Self lubricated with my thoughts I strip and recline, and I’m part way there even before my eager fingers make the first contact. Cautiously touch my cleft, no more than a breath, but enough to make me shudder and know where this is taking me. My imagination is caressing my breasts, my fantasies penetrating my secret depths and forbidden dreams are scourging my flesh.
Snuggle further down in the bedding; this is too good to hurry, let me make it last. It’s going to be a great weekend!
Poetry at it's finest.
ReplyDeleteThank you. It's good to be appreciated.
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