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We start at the collarbone, and stop at the waist. We usually stop here because, somehow, my waist is so visible. It’s about availability. Sometimes you say how soft my skin is. I thought most of us applied oil every morning, when the body is still wet and new from the shower. Other times you say nothing. A short while after—often too soon—you start grabbing the skin a little tighter, my hair pulled back. It hurts now and then, but isn’t it supposed to. You think it’s hot when I moan regardless. Softest hard moans. Never too loud because that’s cheap, and because magazines or mothers or history taught us better than that. I only moan out of real impulse. Because, babe, you feel so good. When parts of you continue to touch and see me, I suck in my stomach, curve my spine anew. Stretching my limbs beyond the horizon makes us think you could never love fucking another body. Cuz I’ll be all you need, babe. I swear I’ll try my hardest so you’ll want to stay here at least a little longer than you’ve rested elsewhere. Like, I’ll be the home of your choice, the place you’ll come back to because it’s in the architecture of your blood. I’ll convince myself if I keep moaning, and shaving, and laughing, and cumming, you’ll never leave. And I promise I’ll always want to fuck if my stomach is flat and my pussy smooth. As our bodies merge further, there’s the immediate expectancy of cumming, simultaneously joining and separating the two of us. An automatic reality cultivated, above all, in my wet parts. Guaranteed, if fictional. Because, what matters most is that you feel good about yourself, babe. I know I need to cum, on you and in you, with and without you. Otherwise I’m not the woman you’ll love, the one you make cum, so fast, over and over. When your index finger has reached into the far distances of my lacerations, the sound of my body eventually shifts with agency as I pretend to cum in your hand for the first time. You grab me from behind, and I keep my four limbs steady like the walls of a city. Or something as lovely and provocative and seizable. Your hands grind my face into the ground, hard. I’m mostly concerned about how disfigured the face must look when my forehead, lips, cheeks, eyelids drag back and forth on the surface of the bed (or wherever we’ve collapsed onto)—all the while a little swollen from the heat and heaviness of your gravitational body—than the sporadic inability to breathe. After pretending to cum a few times more, I ask you to lay on your back. I pour my hips over yours. I wave my body. I concentrate, I try to melt. I’ll be here until I’ve finished. Getting off can be fast, sometimes it takes real work. Especially when you expect me to cum sooner, with your cock reimbursing me. If you stay still, babe, it’s much easier. Trust me. When I finally cum, I fall down on your chest, sort of organic and involuntary. Exhausted by flexing muscles, legs and mouth and stomach, moaning, pretending to cum so you can cum, cumming so I feel what you feel, babe. Our genitals begin to separate freely, both of us breathing heavily. I’m usually thirstier than you, babe. It must be all that moaning. My mouth sometimes halfway open, sometimes full. Meanwhile you look at me, with your eyes bloodshot and sedated from all that living and dying and living, and at that very moment you might think I’m the most perfect thing, while my legs still shake and my stomach unfurls, hollowing a little more across the table, across the bed, across the floor, while my body continues to abide as an abstraction. How the process of my becoming is never-ending, babe. Our breath and our bodies calm down. You ask why sometimes I don’t want to be kissed down there. I give an answer that’s a suitably easy answer. Like, I don’t feel like being mouth-fucked right now, babe. Like, I’d much rather be fucked by the whole of you. Because you fuck so good. Though, I’ll always want your mouth too, because it feels like I’m nurturing you, and somehow that image is so beautiful. But how can I nurture justly if shaving the past three days makes the rash worse, babe, and I don’t feel hot enough because the hairs won’t stop growing and the pores won’t stop bleeding. And so, with all that looming chaos below my belly, I swear I’ll sometimes pay attention to the ease felt by your face pressing further into me. The rest of the while guessing how your cheeks and tongue must feel when they lick around and over skin at the point of breakage. Little traces of hair and dried blood leafing through, eternally. But, I swear, babe. When you’re fastened in my mouth, lying thick with warm wet love that has nowhere else to go except to fall down a little further, I’ll surround you with all the tenderness of my hands and arms and permanence. You’re there, just in my mouth. Because your mind and body—unlike mine—have never had a need to move from place to place. Call it destiny, if you will. When it’s time, I swallow you. Let you live as the fountain that sometimes coagulates inside. I won’t stop until you haven’t. If there’s a need to, I swear I suck you driest. After and in-between, I wonder if you’ve ever come close to knowing what it feels like to have the insides of a face’s crater embalmed with your cum—running wholesome, just enough—which today might taste a little more sour because of yesterday’s smoking and drinking. This feeling of graduality, tepid fluid that was never warm, cascading like nightfall. Down and down. And down. And further down. I think you love most after cumming in my throat.