Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way in...o my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust. " That makes my jaw drop, as I have dreamed millions of times of eating this delicious vixen out. Making her cry out, hearing her sweet moans fill the room, and tasting her delicious and sweet juices. I push open the door and walk into my room, and walk over to my bed. She gets on her knees in front of me and places her hands on my shoulder. I lean down and she kisses me with such passion and force that it rocks me to my toes. My head starts to spin, and I have butterflies in my stomach. As she. More

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