The inside of my mouth is raw from our tongues viciously wrestling against our teeth.
I miss the way you taste; it reminds me of homemade cheesecake, in that I love it but it only happens on special occasions. Id like to change that.
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Your hands are those of a magician and your words are hypnotizing, sending giggles and chills throughout my body. Soft hands meet soft legs gliding over soft thighs causing comforting friction, as my eyes follow every magic move. Im scared to breathe.
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Daytime t.v. pulls us close, those magic hands fitting ever-so perfectly around my waist, gliding smoothly under my clothes, simply to rest on satin skin, awaiting attack. Your heart beats beneath my head. I try to match it.
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Bedroom Talk. Bed. Room. Bed. Talk smothered. And there they go, those enchanted hands, sliding down and over curves, hitting spots, exhausting my lungs, yet leaving me wanting more.
Through it all, I feel that dangerous emotion rise again. I tried to lay there all day.
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Legs weak, lips chapped, leave early. Just like cheesecake, Im left wanting more. And just like magicians, I wonder how you manage these tricks. Somehow, I think G-bo will fit us both snuggly. I look forward to August.














Comments
And being felt up.
--
Redheads not warheads, blondes not bombs
We're talkin' about brunettes not fighter jets
It's got to be Sweet 16's not M-16's
When will the governments realize it's got to be funky sexy ladies?
I love more than being felt up.
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