CHASING THE SCREAM
GAGGING, Part 2
"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players …"
In my case, maybe all the universe's a stage? I'm confident I've just landed in some otherworldly dimension. The cratered facades, stratified rocks, and jagged cliffs are clearly from the Moon, Mars, or space.
I hope you like your women how you like your drinks. How about a Frisky Firewoman on the rocks? Or a Naughty Nurse? Or a Luscious Lawyer? Or a Sassy Schoolgirl? Or a Wild Wolveriness? Or an Alluring Aquawoman? Bottoms up!
My costumes compel curiosity from the few passersby. Maybe they fancy me the Mike Myers of erotic fantasy thrillers, versatile enough to play every single part myself.
OR MAYBE EVERYONE KNOWS I’M A FUCKING EXHIBITIONIST.
Seriously, I must be, at least somewhat? Why else would I allow him to work The Magic Wand on me again, this time in the van, where anyone could just peer in? (We all know they can damn well HEAR me.)
But again, I keep myself fully clothed from my navel down. Even at minute 15 of my 30-minute orgasm, when the Origins of the Universe are Big Banging inside of me, when you'd think I'd be at his whim, I'm a fucking Iron Lady.
"Can I suck on your nipples?"
"No, I told you before, mouth off my nipples from now on."
"Can I pull your pants down a little?"
"Can you pull them UP, PLEASE?"
When he cuddles me after my orgasmic therapy, I even internally scoff that he's being weird.
I'm a fucking wet towel for someone who just wet a towel with cum. Like, seriously ...
Then I realize: I ____ you. And he _____ me.
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