She's getting closer. I can feel her breath on my neck. I can feel her warmth on my hands. I can touch her. I can taste her. She tastes sweet. She's hot. I feel like going down on her, which I do. She still tastes sweet. Sweeeeeeeeeeet. Yes. That's the taste of a woman in heat. That's what I like, a woman who can really moist herself. I know, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm wrong. That women can taste sweet because they're bitter. That's your problem if you think that. I can imagine that they taste sweet, and there's nothing you can do about it. Nor can I, except to change the images in my head. If I can. Alright. I know all this sounds strange, as I've never had a woman in my life. But a man can imagine. He can imagine whatever he likes because imagination is like light. It can go anywhere. It's sparkly; it can set everything on fire. It's contagious like the plague. I like that. I like that image. I feel better now having said all this, although I've said nothing at all. It's just fluff, but enjoyable fluff. Everyone should be allowed to enjoy their fluff from time to time. It should be written in the Constitution, "Every man has the right to enjoy their fluff." An unalienable right. It's in our genes to have some fluff from time to time and enjoy it. It is. I'll contradict anyone who says otherwise.

I feel like I should keep going, but, at the same time, I feel like stopping. I feel a small sensation of embarrassment. Eh, it will pass. The start is always difficult. But once you get used to it, it's like a piss of cake. Cheesy, sweet, and full of cockroaches if you leave it out for too long. I just realized that that doesn't make any sense, but I'll leave it like that. And I'm done for today.