The heights that your sex drive reach are amazing. I would call them beyond compare, but that would be a lie. I have seen the like of those heights in my own sex drive. Perhaps that is why you are the one I am writing this post about.
But even if I weren’t writing this post, I would still be thinking about you. I would be thinking about sending you a message, describing in length the way that the blood rushes to my head — and clit — when I think about you. I’d tell you how I grabbed for the nearest toy or furiously rubbed my clit while thinking about the last time you fucked me, rubbing my clit until I came even though I didn’t think I had it in me.
And you’d love it. You’d reply and tell me how you love reading every detail and about how badly you want to fuck me, how you’re going to fuck me when you’re home. You’ll tell me that if I’m your good little girl I’ll answer the door naked and you’ll reward me. I’ll hold my breath as I wait for every response.
As much as we thrive on the sexual tension when we’re apart, it’s better when we’re finally together again. It feels electric when we touch, and I am completely consumed by you, by us, the moment. The anxiety that I carry the rest of the time can’t compete with my rapt attention to you.
What makes you so fuckable? Is it the sexual relationship based on friendship that’s so comfortable? Is it your easy manner? Perhaps it’s chemical. Maybe it’s the way that I feel free to submit to you and you feel free to objectify me in the way that I need. In the end, it could just be a combination of all the the above, some unclear but constant equation that we depend upon but cannot explain.
We’d skip the explaining and get to fucking anyway.
