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Thoughts of the macabre and mundane.
I said your name when her lips hit my belt buckle.

Hadn't ever let myself slip like that. I'm so careful, so quiet when I feel anyone's heat on me. Doesn't matter how good it feels, how much I want release. I calculate the amount of time it will take and how much I need to force the fluid out of myself in order to create an orgasm that wouldn't otherwise come. But I said your name when I reached the back of your throat, screamed it in my mind.

What else could I do but cover it up with her name, repeat her name multiple times as if I hadn't said yours at all? I kept saying her name, over and over again, until I had stopped dripping, until she sputtered from a full throat. You weren't even on my mind. Not until I had to come. But then you happened like a flood, as if the dam had broken. The cement could perhaps cure the hole temporarily, but everyone would know that the wall had collapsed and that the patch was a sham. Saying her name was false. I could not undo the fault in my mind.

She was still sucking at me as I was being pulled in every direction. How could she put her lips on me when they should be your lips, how could I put myself on someone else's tongue when it should be you tasting me, me feeling you? There was no one there to save me. I came quickly to end the turmoil.

Do you ever think of me? It must just be me who does this. I must be the only one.

...
Was going somewhere here. Lost track.





 
 
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