When I’m writing my short stories and novels, I embrace the deep penetration. I become the “bad girl” and I crave the “bad boy”.
*** ADULTS ONLY, KIDDOS.
I literally close my eyes, and my tired fingers squeeze his fleshy arms and wipe the beads of sweat from his taut skin. I’m not ashamed of it. I embrace the transformation of me into the liberated woman I strive to be. I’m hoping the head trip pours into my words, and that I describe it so intimately your dick drips or your vagina gushes.
When I write, I’m thrusting my pelvis forward, cradling you and not letting go until I watch your eyes flash with exhilaration. Putting words on the page is more than writing. It’s architecture, painting, cooking, creating, because when I’m done, what I write lives in the reader’s mind. There, fiction stakes out its own existence, titillating your thoughts, making your mouth fall, and it becomes real. And though we’ve never met, you experienced a little of me. I gave you beauty that will tarry in your memory.
The thrill of writing does that for me. So I write the next story with sizzling anticipation that it will be good for both of us.
Happy spring, loves.