"Ascending sexual compulsion" ...
What does that even mean, baby? Are you walking around with a hard-on twenty-four seven? Are you grinding in the sheets? Are you spurting in your jeans when you write this analytical hyperbole?
You do realize, lover, that when I'm sitting in the audience at your book signing during Q&A, I will be wearing a short skirt with a translucent G-String -- white lace for the purpose of contrast, because I won't shave my pussy for months in advance. I'll try not to be obvious to others when I open my legs for you during your exhaustive presentation. But what should I care if they notice me flashing you?
Your glances will become extended and frequent, particularly when I start flossing my furry, pink lips with that tiny, sheer triangle of fabric that hardly comes close to covering the curls of my muff.
But you know the purpose of my panties was never to hide my assets from you. It was only to accentuate what you cannot resist. You can smell it like oven baked cookies. You can taste it in your mind. You can feel it wrapped around that pulsating shaft you keep tucked in your trousers.
My husband will be appalled that I've let myself go, that the hair on my cunt has grown wiry and thick like some amazon dominatrix from the jungle... like some 70's porn star with her cherry lip gloss and her bright blue eyeshadow smile. My pussy will be for you, lover... not him. It will be your hot, sticky semen that clings to the glistening ringlets on my mound... your cock that combs through my cum-caked cascade of black bristle.
You like the look and feel of it, don't you? You love burying your bayonet into the pelt of my beaver, ramming and slamming until the gooey excretions mat down my fluffy shag carpet. You like the tickle of my pubes on your face as you probe me with your tongue and savor my American pie.
What will it be like when I cream in your mouth? Reminiscent of your teenage romps with girls still growing their pubescent tits? My little tangelos should make you remember. My tiny nipples might cause you to wonder how I ever sprouted such a flourishing bush. You recall how I told you I was such a late bloomer.
I've never been with a man who wanted me this way, natural and unscathed by a razor. Make me your island girl... your blue lagoon bitch in the sand, stranded on a beach without a prayer for rescue.
I relish your load like a handful of no rinse conditioner, massaging in the oils and the scent. It's the sheen of being seeded by a strong, virile man that brings the sparkle and glow to my nest down below... a man who just might make me pregnant.
Yeah, give it to me good. Shoot it deep.
You... the risk taker and the mess maker. Fill me up and send me back to my patiently submissive hubby like a sopping wet rug that you'd otherwise hang over the balcony railing. Drip and dry. Say goodbye. Dump your load on the fly.
It must please you to learn how my husband licks my fur like a cat. I insist he clean me thoroughly, that he slurps every slimy thread you've coated in sperm. Now, he understands my retro fascination and the essence of my well-seasoned lover.
And I understand the pleasure of how you fuck me hard and wipe your oozing, spent cock on my doormat.
Before the week is out, you might shave me smooth and collect my pubic curls as a remembrance. You might tuck them away, a souvenir in your bedside drawer to study and stir with your fingers at midnight when your wife is asleep beside you. I might give you my G-String as well, stained with our sultry love making and stiff with the dried secretions that you recall from those sloppy and punishing thrusts when you slipped the narrow band of soft cotton from my crack and slid it across the cheek of my ass.
