Again with credits to O and Nina, and my apologies for any echoing.
Dear T,
Only in that fantasy with the workmen can I allow myself to be truly reactionary, let myself feel triumphant in their shock, struggle to outdo my subversion in their eyes as much as my rage truly wants.
But my purest desire is also there in the taboo of their hatred and disregard; I engineer the cleanest, fastest of all orgasms.
There are many directions I could take it, but I need to strip it of all niceties these days, expose it starkly: a grimy, calloused touch on my hips, (still a touch), my mouth around their appalled, struggling, wanting, cocks, (still a hard feel against my tongue), a senseless, brutal pushing in of their cringing cocks inside, (still a penetration). As they stand over me, discussing me crudely like I am not there, I am still wet. Look at her, such a dirty girl, look at how wet her pussy is, can you believe her, who knows where she’s been, look at this ass, check out these tits, leering at the body that I have stripped down naked to so I can be fucked.
And that I let myself fantasise this, be subject to this, is a terrible proof of my body's need, it strikes fear in my heart to know this, that I am walking around, living my life, carrying such volatile, fragile want inside me the whole time.
For me, exposing myself to the extent of my desire, recognizing it, has always been a straight, easy trip to orgasm, with little need for touch.
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