Why can’t you give me what I want? You know how much I strive to be the best writer-wench there ever was, the one, Grusha. I can’t do that without...you filling me with inspiration.You leave me no choice but to rub one off in the subject line. Alone.==========Subject Line: Take This, Word-WhoreGrushaVashnadze: You fucking needy, clichéd cumslut.Is acting like a pathetic pastiche the best trope you can come up with?If you want my message up your tight inbox, slut, you’re gonna have to fucking beg. We were outside the club in this fenced in area, not too romantic but fresh air and one could talk above the music. The blond girl, Jenny, asked why I didn't go home with the hottie I had been talking to, she must have been watching me for a while. These girls seemed a bit timid and at the same time quite bold, I wonder if they were drunk, they didn't seem it. They looked way too young to be in the club but who knows. Any way Jenny asked "so you let you friend have her? that was nice, you must. ”“Why not both?” I asked, philosophically.“Why not both,” she shrugged. “Alright. I feel like Indian. You want to go--”“I’ll pick where we’re going when I rinse off and dress.” I said.“The Princess Margaret then?” she asked, with a roll of her eyes.“No, I don’t wanna go uptown.” I closed the bathroom door behind me. When I stepped out, Talsy rushed over to dry off my hair. She’d laid out jeans and a t-shirt for me on the coffee table. I dressed, stepped into my shoes, and looked at her.“You. Her moans turned to soft yips and then I heard her orgasm with a muted groan, no doubt muffling herself with a pillow or her hand. That proved too much and I cam along with her, muting my own grunts of ecstasy as best I could. It was only after I'd finished cumming, laying there, panting, that I realized how loud I might of been. But as I slipped into my post-orgasmic slightly drunken slumber, I felt nothing but satisfaction and pleasure. The next morning, we both bustled about, getting ready.
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