His shirt. Afternoon nap by myself. He calls, unexpectedly. “Whatcha doin’?” I do
His shirt. Afternoon nap by myself. He calls, unexpectedly. “Whatcha doin’?” I do not tell Him I’m laying on my large bed, mostly unbuttoned in one of the shirts He left here three years ago. I do not tell Him how, wet with perspiration and very aroused, I am laying, legs spread, ass on a thick pillow offering myself up in front of the standing fan, letting it blow across my overheating and needy pink and juicy peach… imaging it is His breath blowing over my pussy. Back and forth. Just enough to keep from sleep, raise my pulse and also my frustration. I am not allowed orgasm until W/we are together, after I have moved there for good. He likes to do that, blow streams of air over my body; conditioning my swollen, sensitive genitals to anticipate and crave every touch from Him, including His breath. His fucking but not fucking breath. He is a relentless, expert tease. I do not tell Him a thing that I am doing or feeling or wanting. The picture is enough, via text. HerSurrender -- source link
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