Categories

My bare ass just pressed against the cool surface of your table, leaving a faint, warm imprint behind. The shape of my cheeks is right there, a ghost of my presence imprinted on the wood. I stood up and walked away, but that mark remains. Tell me, what's the first thing you'd do when you saw that spot? Would you rush over and press your face against it, breathing in my scent? Maybe run your tongue along the surface, desperate for any trace of me? I know exactly what you'd do. The second I'm out of the room, you'd scramble over to the table. You'd press your face right into the spot where my skin was, sniffing like a desperate animal, trying to inhale every last trace of me. Your eyes would be closed, and you'd be moaning softly, getting off on just the faint smell of my sweat. Then it wouldn't be enough. You'd start licking the surface, long, slow, pathetic strokes of your tongue, trying to taste me. You'd imagine it was my actual ass you were worshipping, and that thought alone would make you hard. You're so obsessed and creepy that a warm spot on a piece of furniture is the closest you'll ever get to a real woman. It's honestly sad, but I find it amusing.