Sabrina in Stockings smartass switch sex worker

I’m fuzzy-headed from congestion and too much cold medicine and I’m sitting cross-legged in a big leather office chair in front of electric firelight. I stare at the screen in this too-hot room until my eyes do a slow dry burn behind my lids. I only feel the heat in waves. My hands are so cold.

I’m reading erotic post after erotic post and the naked pictures turn me on in a way they haven’t in months. Stray sexual phrases catch my attention where I would’ve ignored them before and I know it’s because I’m too sick to fuck.

I fall down walking up the stairs. I won’t get to see him this weekend, and if I will it’ll be briefly, and we won’t have time. I don’t want him to catch this.

I know if I filled my mouth and throat with the thickness of his cock right now I couldn’t breathe. Not sexy struggling couldn’t-breathe, serious couldn’t-breathe. A part of me doesn’t care.

There is nothing at all sexy about me right now. That’s the worst of it. My lips are chapped and I look like a girl with a cold, which is what I am.

What I want is to get underneath my fluffiest blankets, warm my hands on his skin, and once they’ve lost their chill wrap them both around his shaft and stroke, and lick, and tease until his head falls back on the pillow and his eyes roll back and close and his lips part just enough to let that last breath of release out.

I don’t want him to get sick so I’d have to kiss only below his neck.

The medicine has me fading in and out of consciousness. I know soon after I rest my head on his chest I’ll pass out. Maybe I’ll have a chance to lick his come off my hand or maybe I’ll fall asleep with one hand still curled around his cock. The drugs will wear off in six hours and I’ll be ready for more. I’ll roll over onto my belly; my ass looks good, sick or not. It’s a head cold. There’s nothing wrong with my pussy.

This post is for all of you who criticize sex bloggers for only showing the “perfect” side of sex. To the rest of you, I apologize.