Here’s a journal entry about me, a toy, and a video I made for my future husband.
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The red light on my phone camera blinked at me like it knew every wicked thought I wasn’t supposed to have. I propped it against a stack of books, angled just enough to catch me kneeling on the carpet, hair brushed loose so it framed my face the way I know looks sweetest. My heart wouldn’t slow down. I kept whispering to myself that this was for him, for my husband, the man I haven’t even met yet. A gift he’d open one day, proof that I’d been practicing just for him.
I held the toy up to the lens, the thick-veined shaft glistening with the lube I’d smeared all over. My cheeks were already pink, my hand trembling as I said softly, “This is for you.” Then I leaned in and let my tongue trace the tip, slow and nervous, a little moan escaping before I could stop it. My lips closed around it, and I pushed down, gagging almost immediately, but I kept going—messier, louder, wetter. Strings of spit clung between my mouth and the toy each time I pulled back.
I stole glances at the camera, imagining him watching this years from now, seeing his bride already broken in, eager, filthy just for him. That thought made me shove deeper, throat straining, tears prickling the corners of my eyes. My hand pumped the base, trying to match the bobbing of my head, drool dripping onto my chest, soaking the lace of my bra.
And then it happened. That faint click, and a sudden jet filled my mouth. I coughed around it, swallowing as much as I could, but it spilled everywhere, across my lips, down my chin, splattering over my breasts. I looked up into the camera with cum running down my body, smiling like I belonged to him already.
I whispered, “I’ve been saving myself for you, sir, but I’m learning how to make you happy.”
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