You masturbated today, thinking about me.
The knowledge warmed my groin, tingled in my fingertips, and set my mind to racing.
You were in the shower, you said, letting the hot water soak into your sore muscles and thinking about me.
Thinking about, you said, your hand on my throat, my body pressed between yours and the slick shower tiles.
I can see it, feel it- my breasts smashed into the tile, my cheek tight to the cool plaster, your hands on my hips, my waist, cupping my buttocks, wrapped around my throat and tight in my hair.
There are very few people I trust with their hands on my throat, their fingers in my hair, but in 3 years you have more than earned this and at the brush of even phantom fingers against my vulnerable throat I can feel the almost subliminal shiver running down my spine.
I can feel your hands moving along my body, the steam of the shower opening my skin until I could almost sink into you. I can feel the heat of you, hotter than water pounding into my
skin, against my back, your legs molding to mine and opening them with that casually
assuming insistence which should infuriate me but with your hand on my throat seems only
natural. I can feel the weight of you pressing me forward, my breasts painfully tight
against the wall, my pelvis following yours without conscious thought tilting and opening to
you and to the length of your cock pressed against my ass.
Gods I want this! In even the writing I can feel my body shifting, opening, dampening in preparation for you inside me, and inside my head I can feel the head of you nudging me
open, the slow stretch of my body opening to you, opening for you, feeling you fill me with
that damned patience that I both love and hate about you.
More, more, I want to scream at you- Now! But with your hand on my throat all I can do is whimper and rock my hips back into you, begging wordlessly for you to fuck me.
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