She smiles up at me then ,the look of crazed sex in her face now turning to such innocence and purity as I slowly rock against her hips , "I love you Michael Jackson , I really do",she whispers as if on the verge of happy tears, her sweet whisper warm against my agape lips as I went to claim them ,those words tugging at my heart as well as my body for all I want to do now is give her everything she wants. She's lovable, but makes loving her very difficult. But its the roller-coaster ride I can't handle. I'm so desperate for you",he smiles softly as he takes my hair in his fingers and plays with it delicately , my core throbbing as he bites his lip , the constant ringing of his doorbell distracting me once more as I slip from atop him forcefully for his hold was strong and his longing look on that face made me want to give him everything he wants. I felt that pulsing, heard that sound he makes, that balls-deep groan that signifies an intense orgasm. But his fingers eluded me, frustrated me. And she didn't want to hear it. For a few weeks.
But its the roller-coaster ride I can't handle. It's like being pounded by waves while caught in a rip-tide. Love is a noun and a verb. And her behavior, her normally high-strung, difficult behavior, became that of someone who was nearly unhinged. This one is staying out of harm's way. Enter another cancer diagnosis. I tried to turn around. I've done it many times before. We talked, and she told me she didn't want me to change my life right now, not yet, that she was doing ok, for now. I researched her cancer, sent her information on recommended treatments that didn't involve surgery or systemic chemotherapy. I look down at her flawless face that scrunches up elegantly as she takes my whole length and width within her tight silken grip,my hands gripping the sheets with such force for she makes me want to reach climax so soon just by the way she looks at me when I please her precious body , her face something much more than beauty. It was a firestorm. Making me hiss and twitch as I hung by my fingertips from the shelf, unwilling to trust my wobbly legs to bear my weight. There is something about that burning scrape that is so pleasurable that my skin pebbles and I gasp. Yes, love has a scent. Its like cancer -- insidious, invasive, deadening. Eva The ringing of a distant doorbell has my eyes flickering open from my deep slumber , the sensations of his soft hands felt upon my flesh beneath the sheets that drape over our bodies , his head upon my stomach as he lay between my legs in a way that has me simply wanting to love him more , if possible. Like the fragrance of us wafting up from between my thighs. Without asking either of us, and seeing as I'd made the photo available to Sister 2 and a few others without her permission, I accepted what followed as my responsibility. My only consolation, my only rationalization, is that she loved what she did, and she died doing what she loved. Her outbursts, her way of communicating when frustrated or upset which was often felt like verbal assaults. A deliberate bit of inconsideration on her part, I know. She's never been very good at asking for help and she's very reluctant to accept help. I do not know what to do. And I'm cool with that. He wants me to disengage further, to remove myself from a situation that makes me so sad, that dims my inner light.
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