You doze. The room is heavy with heat and our combined scent, your arm curled under your head, your skirt still hiked up over your hips and my cum still leaking from you. I feel a fierce possessiveness in seeing it, my cock stirring again, wanting to roll you onto your back and drive into you, wake you up by stretching that pretty, little pussy some more.
I let you sleep though, rising to wash myself and hurrying back on silent feet to study you in the low light, your curves and shadowed angles, the tattoos that cover your skin like armor and your deceptively innocent face.
The fact that you are private in your utter depravity, in that you’ve only shared it with me, is strangely adorable. By the grace of whatever hedonistic god you chose to bless me with the power to coax you into losing control, a perfect, little slut from my darkest, most fetishistic dreams.
You are a fetish, from your carefully trimmed bangs to the black stockings so tightly encasing your pale legs. Those legs shift as you stir, opening to flash me your swollen sex, still wet with our cum. I have to bite my knuckles to keep from touching you.