Friday, January 18, 2013


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

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