I couldn’t help myself. Whenever I was around her I had this incredible urge to talk dirty.
Something along the lines of, “I want to dip my wick into your creamy honey pot.”
I’d never wanted to do that in my life and I never had done that in my life, but something about her…
I think the most surprising thing was that she wasn’t some, pardon my French, crack-whore looking woman, so I really have no idea what it was that made me feel this way. Oh the contrary, she was the sweetest looking, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth kind of woman, but she liked sex and she’d made that very clear.
Even stranger was that we still hadn’t touched.
Oh, I wanted to, but so far I’d managed to restrain myself.
So had she obviously and I knew it was killing her, just as much as it was killing me.
I wondered if she was waiting for me to make the first move.