How The World Becomes A Story

Hair wrapped like listless vines around fists that dress this night, a touch divine on a pillowtop with skin on top and radiators clanging like train cars… 

Skin like hers is wicked, soft, just want to tear her legs open but make a quiet entrance, put my mouth on hers and taste every word that comes from her breath, finally, a kiss. Devouring the heat like a hungry child chasing an unknown sweetness, nothing so soft and warm ever compared to that look, how hands fit inside each other with silly natural grace, nothing so soft and warm ever distracted her eyes, with looks and lips like playful barbs on beautiful beds, so soft and warm like arms of potent and enveloping reason, nothing I’ve ever felt was as quite as raw and delicate as those moments. No memory or experience can really prepare a smitten boy for the taste of a raucous and revered lover.

More classy than brassy and more sassy than Sally from the Valley.

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