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Erotica
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Dear
Fiancé |
Thus we've moved to this anticipated stage in our relationship. This long courtship
fraught with increasing sexual tension. My growing need to be fucked finally, fully, wildly by the man to whom I am betrothed. Needing so desperately for you to fill my gaping, aching emptiness with your lovely
mancock.
All those moments we dared to test our chaste vows: You knowing my hunger from the quickening of my breath, the heart that beat faster against your chest, the fire of my cunt against the thigh you shoved into the folds of my skirt. Desperate to keep your secret, even in these heated moments, you never dared press full against me, clothed organ to clothed organ.
A twofold agony for you. Wanting me just as much. Needing to fuck me the way a real man fucks a real woman. Needing to feel the tight clench of hot cunt around a fully formed cock. Yet, always knowing that this is experience forever denied you. And thus....me. Knowing you can never fuck this woman lying wantonly and wickedly beneath you in the way she is begging to be fucked.
Dreading --even as you respond in your very small way to the feminine scent of my arousal so upon you, filling your nostrils, inflaming your need-- that I might in frenzied abandon forcefully shove against you. Skirt to trousers, pelvis to pelvis, crotch to crotch. Hastening the disaster that looms in our future: My pending discovery of your own sad inadequacy.
And here we are in this encapsulated moment. This moment of revelation. Biblical
humiliation, So ironically epic that an underdeveloped dwarf emerging from your own cavern of personal shame is about to cause such catastrophic changes.
You watch my face. A saint-like visage of
anticipation as you fumble --all thumbs in your sweaty nervousness-- with the zipper of your fly. No backward movement here......no escape. And you know it. You watch my face. Seeing my blissful ignorance of that forever-held breath. That angel of disappointment that hovers about us ready to pounce. You see her. Your first love. Your true love.
The dark angel that shares your dirty secret. She who has taunted you in the darkness of the night as you cupped your incompleteness. After all, only a few brief strokes needed for the little dwarf. Did she laugh at you? Perhaps even blew once or twice just to flaunt your
defectivity. Did you hear her evil whisper as you squirted your scant bit of goo in a brief spasm of nasty relief? She was with you every night, wasn't she? Foreshadowing the vivid disappointment that --with exposure-- will steal away this countenance of desire before you.
I lick my lips. You see the brush of
perspiration above them, knowing the hunger that causes it is about to be replaced with disgust, perhaps pity.
Your clammy fingers, slipping, sliding.
I blink my eyes.
Impatiently I whisper, "Hurry. Show me, darling."
"Show me!"
Exasperated, I reach out to help.
"Now, darling. Now!
You hear the dark angel snicker.
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