I’m not sure who you were trying to reach, but… don’t hang up. I can feel your voice pulsing over my body -- round vowels rolling over the arch of my back, sharp consonants probing my mouth. You moan into me, dark and full, filling me up until I’m unable to distinguish your voice from my passion, the hard syllable of your cock from the wet folds of my pussy.
Who are you? Your voice sounds familiar but… not. Have we met? Did you make love to me or… did we just fuck?
I remember. It’s 3am and the Greyhound is pulling over at a rest stop in Reno, Nevada. As we’re debussing you look at me, pull your collar up and say, “Damn it’s cold.” And, just like that, we’re a pair. I move my backpack and pillow in with you and, by the time the Greyhound speeds through Carson City, we’re fucking in the back seat of the bus and some crumpled old guy is eyeing us with his fist down his pants.
Or am I mistaken?
No comments:
Post a Comment