Сan I sit on your face?

You notice those thick thighs first — the kind built to bracket your skull and squeeze out every coherent thought you've ever had.

You feel the weight of that pawg curves pressing down, warm and deliberate, until breathing becomes a privilege you earn with your tongue.

You grip whatever you can reach — hip, thigh, the soft give of flesh that doesn't apologize for itself — and you pull closer, deeper, because distance suddenly feels like the worst kind of punishment you've ever invented for yourself.