It is highly distracting to stand up and discover your come running down my leg.

My panties are utterly useless to stop it–completely sopping they are after even one thought more of you, hurried, me hurried and wanting, you drinking coffee with hot milk in my kitchen while I suck your cock, you turning me round to fuck me up against the sink long enough to make me come, not long enough that you would come, but almost.

And you, your tongue, your marvelous tongue, and your thumb (whatever magic trick you were doing with it), and my tongue, you, your ass, your marvelous ass, lovely and ready, and willing, and more. A million things I might do, have not done.Maybe not a million. A few.

I wish at times to fuck you in all ways, to fuck you like me, to fuck you like you, sweetly that way, not sweetly, but hard, harder. Stop. Then switch.

Now I am you, bent over the bed, as we started in the kitchen, but closer now, closer, yes, now you.

And you, your come, your luscious come, dripping down cream, down my legs, distracting me now, dizzy, reminding me of wanting you.