A Mess She must look a mess. Self awareness shot through her like substance abuse, and she realised
A Mess She must look a mess. Self awareness shot through her like substance abuse, and she realised she must look like a mess. Mascara impressionistic smudges around her eyes, desperate black lines where tears had streaked down her cheeks. Lipstick rearranged in blobs of colour and saturation, only vaguely following the lines of her lips. She must look a mess, and for a moment she entertained that thought, but it was her mind surfacing for air before plunging back into the rest of them, the ones that had him pounding in and out of her, the ones that had his hand around her neck, her face, her hair. The ones that flooded her with sensation left her panting and moaning and begging and gasping. The moments that overwhelmed, and left her in a mess. A mental mess, a physical mess. The strands intermingled, intertwining like DNA until there was no divide. Inextricably linked, they spun like a ballerina. She was a mess, and she’d clean herself up after. Once he was done, once he was spent. Once he’d shot his load deep inside her, and she’d come on his cock for the second time that night. She came in twos, whereas he demonstrated the solidarity of the single moment of orgasm. There was philosophy there, some wry sociological quip she could make, but her mind was too far gone to come up with anything approaching wit right now. Something about the duality of woman against the single minded nature of man. She supposed. She was a mess. She’d clean herself up later. Now was for panting, fucking, choking, squirming, coming. Now was for him. Now was for her. She was a mess. A hot wet mess. -- source link
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