Dear T,
When I tell you that I miss cock, that I just want to be fucked, it is true, but is also a lie by omission. I can’t afford to tell you any more than that anymore. Not when we are halfway there, halfway gone.
The full truth is I can’t stop thinking of how I would like nothing better than to lift and sit myself on top of your cock, rooted onto you. I miss the pleasure of your cock, the texture of your head when it begins to split me open.
Etcetera. Etcetera. Etcetera. Weary from my want for you again. Are you weary from reading it?
Actually, the entire truth, if I were to stretch it out completely is that I miss you entirely, miss the giddy laugh that is being around you, miss a bit too what we never were.
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