I haven't checked in in a while. But I assure you it's not because I haven't been thinking about you. I have. A lot.
"Thinking about you" might be too strong. It implied careful and articulated thought -- a complete painting, a start-to-finish narrative. I admit, I've been too busy for that. But you have, unavoidably, been bumping up against my more primitive sensibilities this whole time.
I think that is where any good sexual reverie begins for me: in a primitive moment. Sometimes that moment is allowed to flourish into something more complex: a scene, a story, a three-act play. But sometimes that moment remains, simply, a moment, a brightly-coloured reverie that shatters an otherwise mundane routine. That is the gift you bring, simply by leaning a certain way, catching the light on an appealing curve, licking the edge of your coffee cup, just so. You break the grey shell of routine and paint my world with a slash of erotic fuscia. And it makes me want to fuck you. Then and there.
Take that woman, standing at the counter. She's done nothing but show up wearing those stretchy, comfy pants. But the way they cling to the luscious edges of her ass sends an electric charge from my eyes to my groin. Stirrings. Longings. An almost irresistable desire to yank them down to your knees, push you over the counter and watch as my hard cock disappears between your gorgeously curved cheeks, again and again, sending rhythmic, shivering ripples through your flesh. All that from the pants you chose and the shadow of a curved behind.
