Sexting

I fantasize about him-the man l've been sexting with-and it's filthy, primal, relentless. I imagine him walking in, his eyes hungry, devouring me without a word. He doesn't waste a second. He grabs me, pinning me to the wall, crushing his lips against mine, taking what he's been dying for. His hands are everywhere, ripping my clothes off as if he can't get them off fast enough. His voice is low, raspy with need. "You're mine now," he growls, sliding his hand between my thighs, feeling how soaked I am for him. "You're fucking drenched, baby. I'm gonna fuck you like you've never been fucked before." I can barely breathe as he thrusts inside me, hard and fast, claiming me completely. His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as he pounds into me, over and over, every stroke deeper, rougher. I can't escape it, and I don't want to. I'm moaning, begging for more, and he just laughs, low and dark. "That's right, beg for it. You're gonna take it all." I can feel his thrusts. I love the way he moves inside me-hard and fast, intense and rigid. I love it when he comes inside me, whether it's inside my pussy or all over my face or navel. It's the sensation of his lust for me, the way he fucks me by possessing me, that splatters his cum, spreading its slippery stickiness.