Flaccid

I grow tired of the feel of my skin, the sound of my hastened breath, my self induced release. It is no fair substitute for your touch on my flesh, your moist tongue, the warmth of your breath. Self gratification pales in comparison to the caress of your arms, the heat of your loins enveloping mine. The quiver of your breath hastens my crescendo in ways immeasurable to my own - my engorgement feels not the same in soft slightly callused hands, as it does anticipating lips. I need desperately a reprieve from self-intercourse; self-love is slowly becoming self-loathe.