Fit for purpose

As she was fondling the package of titanium and testicles between my legs this morning, Belle told me being that way made me “fit for purpose.”

Fit for purpose.

I then got to work getting her off. I gently pinched and caressed her nipples. Licked, and sucked on them. Pressed the flat of my hand against the hot mound of her sex. Parted her lips with my fingers and touched her wetness.

Fit for purpose.

I got tighter as I went on. As she started moaning and writhing. As she got wetter and my fingers danced over her clit.

She came hard. Loudly. Her pleasure peaking as my tightness reached its maximum.

There was no point in during this encounter did I pine for penetration. No wistful memory of what it felt like to slide into her. To fuck. To shoot my load against her cervix. No moment after her orgasm where I wanted to climb on top of her and press the device into her as if I could still enter her. None of those cravings or desires. If they’re not truly and fully dead inside me, they’re barely clinging to life support.

Fit for purpose.

She hasn’t let me use the contents for 602 days. As I first touched her pussy and felt how inviting and ready it was, the only craving I could sense was to do what I was doing. I moaned from the pleasure of feeling hers. Of being allowed this most intimate contact with her.

I am, thanks to her, fit for purpose. Finally and completely.

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