Losing grip every second signifies failure on some level, my conscience tumbling away despite the mental gymnastics as She emerges. I want this to cel...brate love, not cloaked lust. The blurred distinction between the two may be semantics, but to my inner bitch it’s all about torrid execution. As I wither and She blossoms, the fractured mirror between my worlds affords glimpses of my body being besieged like a virus through a hapless host. Nipple tweaks turn to pinches. My 36Cs begin to feel. I could feel the heat, and there was a long glistening strand of clear, thick liquid stretching from your pussy halfway to your knees.I wound that strand around my finger, almost all the way up to your lips, but stopped, and reached around, giving you my finger to lick.“Taste your pussy,” I said. “Your juices are on my finger even though I have not touched you there yet.”You licked my fingers greedily, the way I liked.“Fuck me, Stefano!” you exclaimed. “Fuck, don’t be fucking mean. Fuck my cunt. More

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