The traffic signal on my phone cam blinked at me like it knew every worthless thought I wasn't expected to have. I propped it versus a stack of books, tilted just sufficient to capture me kneeling on the carpet, hair combed loosened so it framed my face the method I recognize looks sweetest. My heart would not slow down. I kept murmuring to myself that this was for him, for my spouse, the man I haven't even fulfilled yet. A present he would certainly open one day, evidence that I 'd been exercising just for him.

I held the toy as much as the lens, the thick-veined shaft glistening with the lube I would certainly smeared around. My cheeks were already pink, my hand trembling as I whispered, "This is for you." Then I leaned in and allow my tongue trace the idea, slow-moving and anxious, a little moan leaving before I might stop it. My lips surrounded it, and I pushed down, gagging nearly quickly, but I maintained going-- messier, louder, wetter. Strings of spit sticks between my mouth and the plaything each time I pulled back.


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