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Literature
Table Position
You. All fours. Thick thighs, hips that widen past your shoulders. Heavy, large breast's extend towards the floor. A belly, large and round, full and slightly tight, kisses the floor gently with each breath. In front of you, strawberry ice cream cake, crunchies in the middle. Delectable, sweet, heavy, meant to feed 6.
You don't care because you're finishing every last bite. He's behind you, ready to reward you. Ready for the show. He'll love it. He's loved watching you fill your already thick and delicious form with bite after bite of every sweet or savory thing he could coax you into passing between your ample lips. Of course, he didn't need to coax you THAT much. You loved the attention, the opportunity to tease. The chance to indulge your appetites...and his.
Your belly didn't come so close to the floor a few months ago. Your hips weren't inches beyond the width of your shoulders either. He didn't need to reach as far as he does now. You also couldn't finish a cake like this after a meal like that a few months back either. And yet, here you are. Panting from anticipation and fullness. Excited, yet exhausted. Your mouth waters. You throb with wet anticipation elsewhere.
"Are you ready?"
"I'm hitting 350 tonight...you know I'm ready"
"Then you know you don't cum until you finish...and hit 350..."
"Bring it on."
Literature
One of Those Days
I come back
with eyes weary
—every day—
to look at her face
and her lips rearing
in sweet laughter.
Then I bathe
body, mind, and eyes,
and after, her essence
envelops me whole in
a sweater of reprieve
and tender lies.
Literature
Hunger for More
I’ve lived my whole life learning
how to survive without romance.
I can go without flowers,
without grand gestures,
without somebody swearing forever
under dim porch lights and dying stars.
I can live without being adored.
I already have.
But affection—
that is the hunger that hollows me out.
I know what it feels like
to have flesh touched.
I know the emptiness
of mouths that kiss like obligation,
of bodies colliding without tenderness,
of being wanted for a moment
without ever being cherished.
I want someone so desperate for me
they can’t stop kissing me.
The kind of kisses that start soft
and turn breathless without warning.
Their hands finding my face again and again
like they’re afraid to lose me
if they pull away too long.
I want to be laughed into kisses,
pulled into someone’s lap mid sentence,
caught by the waist in the kitchen
just because they needed to feel me close.
I want nights where we end up making out
like teenagers starving for each other,
not because it has to
Mature
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