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I’m turned on.
I wish you were here.
I miss you.
The words don’t do justice to the feelings I hold inside.
Twisted up.
Panties rubbing.
Squirming.
Thighs rubbing.
Can’t settle myself down.
Want to scratch this itch.
My fingers brush against my breast and my nipple springs to attention. I cup my breasts. My nipples poke out between my fingers. I squeeze them and feel it tingling my milk ducts, the sensation traveling deep in my breast. There’s milk beading on my nipples and then dripping down my breasts. I take a few pictures and choose one to send to you.
I continue playing with my own breasts. Each time I do, involuntarily, my labia squeeze tightly together. Tingles inside me everywhere—that’s what I mean when I say I’m turned on. This gaping hole inside me, this need to be used up, this desire to give you the gift of enjoying my sensitized body—that’s what I mean when I say I wish you were here.
I rub my nipples more hungrily. My nipples are standing tall. I shiver. Every time my finger grazes my nipple, my pussy responds, twitching.
I squeeze together and release. I think about how I want to be squeezing on your cock.
I want to nibble on your ear. I want to feel your cock twitch inside me, then to feel your release. I want to nuzzle your face in my bosom and shade you while you ride the waves of your orgasm up into me.
I bite you harder. You make me sticky. We’re even.
It’s messy, but I feel wholesome, not dirty. It’s a lovely thing, if not plain Christian, to take your husband’s cum in you—his seed, his energy, his manly efforts—to let him work you over until he is tired and can sleep well; then to be his fully stuffed, swollen pillow, with the sweet scent of your love-juice cocktail slowly being released from your honey pot.
This story that I’m writing for strangers to enjoy when you’re not here to bring it to life—that’s what I mean when I say I miss you.
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