In Bloom
It’s summertime, which can only mean one thing.
My garden is in bloom.
Maybe it’s the sunshine and gentle breeze. The lack of clouds. Being able to wear less clothes.
The petals of my pussy are unfolding, so there’s only one solution:
Get plowed.
May is my birth month. I’ll be turning twenty, entering a new decade of autonomy and pleasure. Making magic between my thighs. Dressed in lacy pink lingerie—marking my journey into womanhood. I've felt the gentle caress of another's lips and hope they explore both sets.
June is for the daughters of the sun. Beat down by the heat of my lover's body, glistening with sweat and slickness. I hope to indulge in some loving. Sweet kisses and car sex. Once-in-a-blue-moon kind of pleasure.
July is for the horny creatives. My patriotism is to sweat slick bedsheets and country music. I want to get fucked—sweetly and filthily in equal measure. My lover’s tongue caressing the folds of my pussy—my cum tasting like nectar and cherry cola.
He's so gentle with me. An affectionate lover. Kind hazel eyes that slope downwards. Soft curls scented amber, the color of corn wheat. Smooth hands parting the plush of my thighs, hungry for my dark honey.
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