One quarter of an hour to seven in the morning and it's just me and a pilfered pair of panties. One solid garment of gossypium fiber trimmed with machine appliquéd lace containing the deoxyribonucleic acid of a recent target of desire. Their placement in my hand and not covering the genitals of their owner signifies a good night was recently had. That is to say I got laid. Seven hundred twenty minutes ago the encounter commenced. Seven weeks ago the exchanges commenced. Wit and filth encrypted by software and sent to pixilated windows incited rare interest despite contrary natures of vapid materialism and vagrant morosity. Efforts in self-improvement doubled but goals remained unmet at time of aforementioned encounter due to irresistible will destroying lasagna so insecurity runs high. I'm no Narcissus. A little closer to seven in the morning. Digital communication having thus far been our only form thereof we meet publicly at her behest. I don't do butterflies so when her visage comes into view I'm clear enough to decide I want to kiss her. She's appealing to my astigmatic visual receptors with an agreeable body fat percentage adequately displayed via form enhancing attire. That is to say she's fucking gorgeous. Closer proximity reveals a scent pleasing to my secondary chemical sense. My remaining three senses are comparably satisfied by the exchange of expectoration and concurrent moan. Keratin strands are pulled slightly. Torsos are pressed together. Having dropped chemistry in High School I'm unfamiliar with where ours falls on the periodic table but Mohs scale is the more appropriate measurement anyway. Sexual frustration derived from weeks of illicit correspondence boil over and more bodily fluids are shared before a meal is. Then a meal is. Then more fluids are and unmentionables are swiped for posterity. I kissed and told. I'm no Atlantic Starr. Four minutes to seven in the morning. The target telecommunicates to whisper sins and debauchery. This one’s a keeper.
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