>Memory of I

Sometimes, I will just come to mind. Different things about her. She’s married and so am I and we live 000 of k’s from each other but I can’t help thinking that if we’d meet again we’d become lovers. the memory of pounding her tight petit ass, pulling her towards me, the sounds she made, her face—lost in pleasure, the guttural moaning—how she said, “No one’s fucked me like that since I was 14”, and how she later denied it. Her love of anal. Her love of roughness. Our long nights of fucking, falling asleep and then fucking again. We really should meet again to fuck our brains out.