Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

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Hands in Conflict

Frail may be the sanity that remains, but it is through memories of you… memories of us that it refuses to abandon me. The warmth brought about those very thoughts almost makes it seem that you are beside me. I cherish every image of us as if you were right here this very second. They bring nightly solace with the company of the times we’ve had. For that, I thank you! The comfort eases the pain from the danger I’m living. It is not until awakened by the ruckus of early conflict that I realize I did not fall asleep in your arms. That I fell asleep thinking of us, thinking of you.

At times I awake totally uncovered with my hand down by the secret for which Victoria is famous. Just as many are the mornings when I’m still saturated from the night’s events. I welcome the morning dew as if it were caused by your physical presence, my dear. I want to tell you about the many nights I’ve fallen asleep fighting my pleasures with digital stimulation. I start slow, as I normally do, meticulous and careful not to be seen. I use the experience gained while surveying enemy territory to hide from intruders.

Plenty have been the moments where I’ve behaved as the times when I’ve almost fallen prey to the enemy and forced to retaliate with fatal intentions: I penetrate myself unmercifully. I switch between one and two digits, turn my body face down, up again never ceasing to let my fingers stimulate my needs. I rotate my hands in circles around the sensitive area, while the other fantasizes about your greater ego penetrating me, smacking my bottom with your scrota time and again. I think of the nights when the suffocating saturation covered my inner thighs, your ego, your shaft, even your mouth. I close my eyes ever so gently to get a glimpse of your veins getting lost inside of me.

Your head disappears first, followed by the shaft until you are deep inside. The first thrust is always the most telling. In times of need as I find myself since departing your side, the thrust has been hard and deliberate enough to remind me of the times you’ve had me with little intention but to get off on me. My hand moves recklessly fast as if an anxious lover not knowing where to sooth a partner. This war has placed me in a place I thought I never be… pleasuring the fear away. I’ve done so just about every night during this, my latest, campaign. I’m sure I’ve been heard moan your name many a nights. I also don’t doubt that half the platoon has seen me body uncovered at night after falling asleep with thoughts of you still present on my hands. Voluptuous woman holding gun

I’ve purposely smacked my bottom to leave handprints as reminders of our nights of decadent care. I taste myself over and over finally realizing why you love to pull my legs apart, contour what you find there within to your tongue, and send me heaven bound. My aroma must be a permanent member of the bed sheets, my hands, my legs in the morning. I’m no child about feeling myself; just as I am not shy about it, either. I grab, I touch, I think of you in my mouth, my bottom, my front. The images arouse me into climax late, late at night, only to see me fall asleep until distastefully awakened by the sound of conflict.

I love to watch the sticky secretion tied to my fingers. I smear it about and up the separation between my butt cheeks. I’ve come to the thought that soon it will not suffice to be penetrated with my fingers as a proper woman. I will have to feel what it is that you so much enjoy about penetrating me from behind. Frail my be the sanity that remains, but be assured that it is still here because of you.

P.S: Write back, you ass….