You’re nothing more than a fantasy, a figment of my overactive imagination made real by a lack of a real, human man in my direct presence. But I swear, at night, when I’m alone and dreaming, that I can feel you.
Hot breath against my collarbone, deft fingers gripping thighs over forearms wrapped completely in you. A sly smile when you dip down and bring me to church. The flow of your tongue from bottom to top, to that sweet spot that makes me speak in tongues and grip your scalp in invocation. Your mouth on my pussy is a rite, a ritual – an offering to the Wild and Moon.
Deep strokes, a cry of lust and supplication when I spill on your tongue.
“That’s one, beautiful.”