Your friendship has made me so wet, panting for more touches, more strokes of hair...reality pinching me on the swollen buds of my nipples.
Fantasy bleeds my heart as I trace imaginary lines around your lips, how it dives down so well above your mouth, tiny hairs brush over your laughter.
Always what I cannot have.
Unpleasant aftertaste in that.
Maybe I shall return to Jacob, where I could have a new sordid affair in a movie theater made silent by my moans? I am a whore-nun, paradox of womanhood.
You may chastise me as I flog.
This type of guilt gets me off.
~ Jessica M. Wilson