I confess, sweet darling, I love you more than the local eight year old. Yes, I confess.
Incredibly, amazingly, so.
All of you. And, I ain't really got a clue, entirely, of exactly why.
I don't mind.
It's something inside. I have to say, though I always thought I ought to hope for someone different, someone lots more like me, someone who lusted for her (local eight year old) like I do, somehow, I am so way pleased it has not turned out that way.
'Cause like, then...then we might miss out on loving each other, lusting for each other, fucking each other, opting instead, for "her," in lieu of ourselves.
Smiling. Fuck yes, baby, fuck yes, of course...
Your a-cup or less, does not hurt a bit - but it just turned out that way, and far as physicality goes, it was your face moved me way before I saw anything below your neck (how glad I am of that)- and, lol, my first glimpse of that bit below your neck, even, was of a faked up c-cup plus.
Or your bare-shaven, tiny cunt, taut pert ass, sexy tan lines, blue eyes, the color of your hair, the way it lays, its texture, the softness of your skin at your shoulder, the perfection of (lol, do not laugh), your belly button, yup -and fuck, your mouth, your mouth and your lips and your teeth.
The taste and scent of you.
the tone of your voice.
There's a million other things I could confess, of course, of course, in this same general vein.
The way ya think. The way other women move you, even other men. How you found me, and fell in love and lust with me. And the whys: those I know, and those I don't.
Your
fucking
tenderness.
And every single thing I don't yet know about you, too.
Oh fuck, just everything.
Smiling. How does this happen, I wonder.