Every single time

I like to imagine I'm the kind of thing you don't get too often. When I recall the length of your fingers, I think about what it would be like to tug at the button of your jeans, strained tight over your cock. I'm not sure you've ever been with someone like me. And I think, without knowing, of course, that I could be good for you.

I imagine your head thrown back, eyes closed, and I wonder how many girls have gotten on their knees for you. My lips pass over your velvety skin, and I breathe you in. I draw my tongue up the length of you as we seek out and find the shared rhythm between us.

I don't know how long we could stay drunk on the newness of it, but I imagine it would be a very sweet high.  Don't tell me you don't think about it, too.

I imagine you tangling your fingers into my hair, thrusting yourself into my mouth. I think about catching your eye with my own, smiling and moaning. I don't need the lights off, and I don't need the blankets pulled tight. I told you—I'm something you've never had before.

There's a lot of talk about power and head. As far as I'm concerned, there are at least two ways of looking at it. You could either say you're fucking my mouth or you could say I've got your cock between my teeth. Or you could take the sum of the parts, recognize the vulnerability on one side, the power on the other, and the fact that we both keep coming back here. Your fingers in my hair and my lips the shape of a secret, the strength of your hardness and the wetness of my cunt remind me that we're both getting something from this.

And that gets me off every single time.