The hunt for Red September

I can just about sense the scent of your body, as it transmits itself across the miles. It fills my being with a hunger to have the most intimate and rabid carnal knowledge of you. From those full lips to those bosoms that overflow your chest, you are an erotic delicacy for avid and compulsive consumption. One can only speculate how you'd be an undulating and bucking dervish as you celebrated your sexual communion of flowing juices secreting from the pores that feel the gliding friction of our erotic gymnastics as you perform contortions with a gleeful enabling of your ravishment that would receive masturbatory praise from the harshest judges of technique, as they rub themselves with spit-lubricated hands in vicarious sympathy with the vision of you being pumped in a piston-like fervor as your legs envelop my waist as you pull me into that steaming, aroused viscera that seeks to feel the expansion of its dimensions as it grasps and pulls on my sexually plundering rod that had you kicking off your panties that are dangling from your ankles.

Your erotic presence carries itself in such visions that are driving, compulsive motivators for me to remake contact with you so to seal the deal on these fantasies on Earth as they now exist in my imagination. And feel the intensity that palpably is felt when we are in close proximity that self-control is an aborting obstacle to the drives welling up in my loins that want to feel the warmth of penetration in that pussy of yours as we give exclamations of escatsy to the sensations coursing through us as we build to that climactic finally of excretion of our passion on and into each other.