It was most definitely a tribute.
A tribute of thanks, for raising hell within me, for making me seek and find someone to satisfy the relentless hunger that lay inside my soul. A tribute to the way he makes my body crave the pleasure it finds at his hands, even when I am alone and the only hands that can brush against my wanton flesh are my own.
He wasn’t present to watch as my body flexed and writhed as toys slid against and into my throbbing cunt. A throb that seemed to thrum his name up and down my body, leaving no part of me in any doubt as to who my pleasure belonged to.
He couldn’t hear me as I unleashed a barrage of filth into the air, as I begged for him to use me, in every way he could because I’m a dirty, dirty girl that needs to be ruined in the most indecent of ways.
I wanted to cum on him, as he was balls deep in my cunt. I wanted to gush all over him as his hands gripped my backside, as his face lay between my thighs because it seems that absence makes the cunt grow fonder.
Every orgasm without him makes me want to cum for him more.
Every sigh, every gasp, every shake, shudder and moan is his and every wet patch is a tribute to how fiercely he turns me on, without even having to touch me.