You come to me frivolously and say you dreamed of my mouth between your legs. And I’m already burning with the desire to feel your thighs squeezing my neck.
It was in that bookstore.
Lecture, weekday. The boredom of our commitments and your white panties all tucked in, showing under your dress.
Certain carelessness should be a crime. Straps persistently falling, a sideways smile, legs crossed.
It was in the stockroom, by the way.
I scrambled to look for anything, as if it were from the publisher. Your face.
You read my lips: you’re mine, my slut, I whispered almost in a moan.
A second later, the same panties were between my teeth.
Your hand scratching the shelf; mine running over your breasts, waist, hips.
You writhing in my mouth. Over and over. Us spilling everything.
And your delicious laugh on the back of my neck, feeling me soak your fingers. Just like I did just now with mine. Because of you. Oh, silly me.
I wish you so much.
Scorpya 