So here it comes on again like the wondrous moment before the plunger goes down and that spiral twists its way into your innermost regions to play songs of the sweetest sin across who you are.
Its a bit different when its in your head though, and nothing but the tin can rattling around to remind you of the slurried remnants of what you once called yourself all but forgotten in an intense longing, for…er…to do…fuck…something.
Clutch point on a catch and release orgasm and the fish is dying on the line. Fuck me three ways from Sunday if I can pin it. So where to go.
Where to go.
via A New Identity
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 