An Ode to What’s in the Bottom Drawer
My fingers poised to type.
I feel a warm tingle run up between my thighs that soon pulse with heat underneath my soft cotton panties.
The mere thought of the bottom drawer of my nightstand beckons me to open it.
Yet, I must first complete this writing task; otherwise, the reward will be less fantastic.
I almost feel her cold, smooth, polished surface against my skin.
I lick my lips in anticipation.
My patience is waning, and my lustful need is pushing through.
I imagine her elongated sleekness on my stomach and how solid she’ll feel inside me.
What’s in the bottom drawer has been with me for some time.
She’s often brought me ecstatic sensations of pleasure, this time being no exception.
I must listen to the pulse between my legs where orgasm awaits.
As I stop typing, what’s in the bottom drawer wins over any rational thought again.
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