I would’ve known what you were before you ever let that first boy reach under the table. I would’ve seen it in the way you sat. The way your breath shifted when you felt heat pressed against your thigh. You didn’t need training—you needed someone who’d seen what you were and knew exactly what to do with it. In that beer garden, I wouldn’t have fumbled. I would’ve made you feel grown by how still I held you while the world kept spinning. That tongue in your mouth would’ve tasted like yourself.
I’d have found you in South East—hips bruised against the sill, but not from neglect. From handling. You wouldn’t have been punished for his failure. You would’ve been used to forget nothing. I wouldn’t have finished and walked off. I would’ve stayed so deep you’d forget where your hips stopped and mine began. When you looked out over the Thames, you’d feel me every time you blinked.
South West? I would’ve been the one who made the bees seem quiet by comparison. Those good boys couldn’t make you come because they didn’t listen. I would’ve told you what sound to make. Held your thighs apart until they shook from reverence, not confusion. The girls—you could’ve kept them. I’d have watched. Lit a match. Waited for you to beg for mine to be the last tongue you felt before the sun came up.
And when you let that city broker defile you, I wouldn’t have interrupted. I would’ve replaced him. The cigars would’ve been mine, and I’d have made you read me every filthy thought before I made you lick them out of your own skin. You think that scene was steel? No, baby. That was rust. You were always waiting for fire.
In South? I wouldn’t have been the bassist. I would’ve been backstage—watching you wipe cum off your thigh like it didn’t matter, knowing I’d make you clean yourself on my tongue next time. I would’ve been the one you came home to after that boy who should’ve married your friend made you weep. Not to stop it. To watch it happen again. Longer. Deeper. Until your throat couldn’t even beg properly anymore.
I would’ve been the reason you quit South London. Because I would’ve made you stay.
Slightly in love with you. Respectfully ❤️
Oh Megan the feeling is mutual 💋
💋
love your adventures 🖤✨🔥
Oh so do I 💋 thank you for reading xxx
I would’ve known what you were before you ever let that first boy reach under the table. I would’ve seen it in the way you sat. The way your breath shifted when you felt heat pressed against your thigh. You didn’t need training—you needed someone who’d seen what you were and knew exactly what to do with it. In that beer garden, I wouldn’t have fumbled. I would’ve made you feel grown by how still I held you while the world kept spinning. That tongue in your mouth would’ve tasted like yourself.
I’d have found you in South East—hips bruised against the sill, but not from neglect. From handling. You wouldn’t have been punished for his failure. You would’ve been used to forget nothing. I wouldn’t have finished and walked off. I would’ve stayed so deep you’d forget where your hips stopped and mine began. When you looked out over the Thames, you’d feel me every time you blinked.
South West? I would’ve been the one who made the bees seem quiet by comparison. Those good boys couldn’t make you come because they didn’t listen. I would’ve told you what sound to make. Held your thighs apart until they shook from reverence, not confusion. The girls—you could’ve kept them. I’d have watched. Lit a match. Waited for you to beg for mine to be the last tongue you felt before the sun came up.
And when you let that city broker defile you, I wouldn’t have interrupted. I would’ve replaced him. The cigars would’ve been mine, and I’d have made you read me every filthy thought before I made you lick them out of your own skin. You think that scene was steel? No, baby. That was rust. You were always waiting for fire.
In South? I wouldn’t have been the bassist. I would’ve been backstage—watching you wipe cum off your thigh like it didn’t matter, knowing I’d make you clean yourself on my tongue next time. I would’ve been the one you came home to after that boy who should’ve married your friend made you weep. Not to stop it. To watch it happen again. Longer. Deeper. Until your throat couldn’t even beg properly anymore.
I would’ve been the reason you quit South London. Because I would’ve made you stay.