Lust Drunk

Sunday was drunk last night and he was online.
"You need to stop being so cute" he told me, "you kept me up last night with your hotness"
"Oh?" I said "I'm flattered"
"I can feel your skin on my lips now, it's bad."
Oh how I wanted to encourage him on, how I wanted to let my own fantasies pour from my fingers and bring us both to that breathless point of desire, make him come with my words alone. But no.
"Darling, you're incredibly drunk and I believe you have a girlfriend."
"I kno," he wrote, missing a key.
"So as much as I'd love to continue in this vein, I'm going to have to stop talking to you if you keep this up, OK?"

And I carried the conversation away somewhere safe.

But oh, after we'd said good night, how I imagined my hands were his, large and warm, caressing, holding, marking every inch of me, how every brush of the sheets were the whisper of his full lips on my skin and when my orgasm finally came pulsing through me, my pussy like wet satin and yet hard as iron clenching around my fingers it was only Sunday in my head, naked and twined in my long limbs, a steady and solid weight against my heaving.

Today I glow, I preen as I go about my chores basking in the knowledge of how much I can make him want me, I've made him want me oh so much and I've hardly tried yet, I marvel in the feel of my freshly shaven thighs and pussy lips rubbing together sans underwear as I walk, I take moments to stretch languidly, sultrily, enjoying living in this body that is so heavily desired. I am a woman drunk, lost in these erotic dreams, never mind for now what may come of them.