The more I watch this show, the more I realize I’m probably going to be Phil Dunphy in about ten years
I could rush it. I could bury myself with one twitch of the hips, a hard, swift stab. I could suddenly sink in that dark, hot treasure. In an instant, I could be in you down to the root and grinding.
I could take your sweet gasp as a trophy, snatch your pleasure as if it were candy to savor, to roll on my tongue and then swallow whole.
But no, I don’t think so. Not now. Not this time
This time I am coming for your glory slowly. With measured, premeditated determination. I am going to tease. I’m going to frustrate, my tip gliding along your slick satin. I am going to listen for your breath to falter and catch. I am going to make a collection of your whimpers.
I will sink an inch and then retreat. An inch forward, half an inch back. Two inches in and a full stop; my thumb rolling gently — so gently over your hood and the swollen pearl beneath that you squirm, your body begging for more of me even if your lips don’t.
As I feed myself to you gradually, I am going to whisper my plans for you, my designs on you, my expectations and goals and demands for you.
This is slow, but not sweet. Denial is its own kind of pain.
I am going to fuck you in increments. A metered pleasure, in very small doses until the scent of your desperation fills the room
I am going to disappear inside you by degrees, and watch you overheat.
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