Welcome to another episode of Bedtime Stories with Salty Vixen. Tonight’s episode is titled “I think of you” Dear Sir, A word. A breath. An intonation. A similarity so slight most would barely rate it a thought or mention.

But for this woman, every hint, every likeness, every resemblance is a trigger, a spark, an enabler that leads me back to the voice unforgotten, to the accented utterance of my name by the man kneeling at my feet, his mouth pressed into the molten fire of my cunt, each ravenous flicker and devouring kiss driving my desire and body and the pleas falling from these lips to the edge, the brink, our precipice

I think of you.

I think of you and crave the warmth of your fingers trailing across the coolness of my skin, my body yearning to draw deep into my bones your heat, to have you wind yourself about me, your strong arms around me as we slide together gently into the shadows and the night, into dreams, into sleep.

I think of you and your teasing caress, the one that cruelly stops short of touching my aching sex, the one that merely toys with the periphery of this ivory lace as my thighs are splayed wide before you and my arousal soaks the filigree pressed tight into the scarlet smoothness of my throbbing clitoris and these plump lips.

I think of you and my heartbeat quickens, my cunt throbs at the memory of your dominance, the way you took hold and seized me, the way you carried me to the table like a rag doll made expressly for your carnal bidding, pressing your hand into the small of my back as I lowered my naked breasts and left cheek to rest upon the gleaming mahogany, my body trembling, mind racing, the anticipation prickling your skin, our breath, hot and raspy, one moment in synch, in the other out of kilter, and the rush of air that grazed the curve of my flank once you finally raised your hand, the hand that hovered suddenly with unaccustomed patience.

The hand plotting in mid-air the first sweet point of contact, the hand ready and hungry to reprimand my defiance, the fingers and palm itching to mark my pouting buttocks, my entire body as yours with stinging strikes, with bruises and bites, with your uniquely blushing possession.

I think of you and long to feel, to feel your aroused glans straining, fighting against the confines of the inky denim, its pulsating hardness brushing the backs of my legs as you sweep aside my curls and kiss deeply the curve of my nape, your mouth sensually mapping the path from my delicate shoulders to the rosy prints on my fair skin, from the freckles adorning my hip to the intimate flesh pounding, dripping its sin, the tight honeyed succulence silently weeping its need to drench your beard, to come hotly on your lips and your tongue.

I think of you. I think of all of this. And more. But mostly, I think about our fusion, our melting and merging, the stillness of our bodies as your hard, thick cock is deep inside me, all the way inside me, as your ravenous flesh is buried to my breathless limit, so that every millimeter of my cunt can feel you and know you, can grasp and claim and devour each glorious vein and ridge and pulse and morsel of your burnished shaft as if it’s belonged there always, as if it’s an absent part of me returned and home again.