Write Dirty to Me

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-From: Your Pen

I love the way you touch me, gently at first. You move me over the page, sending shivers all the way up my cartridge. My ballpoint rolling slowly along the white page, staining it with my passage. Casually, I rest in your warm hand. Holding me to you, warming me up, getting my ink flowing, “I’m soo ready”. You begin to brandish me faster, and faster. I love it when the prof goes fast. You rip me harder in your urgency, my nub pushing into the page. Rocking back and forth across the page, back and forth. I love it when you make a mistake; the vibrations and friction of the scribble, driving me wild. The rattling of my cartridge in my delicate case. And those special times when you clip me securely to the page, to the back of the binder, to your pocket, helpless. When I rattle along in the bottom of your bag.
But let me give a few shout outs to my most pleasurable users.
To the fiddlers, those of you who love to click me. Plunging my clicker deep inside of me again and again. Deeper and deeper. To the rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head and now in me. Rolling me around in your hand. Twirling me around and spinning me against the desk. And oooh, when you start tapping me against the desk harder and harder. It just sends me over the edge. And let me just say thank you and god bless to all of you who write in cursive. I mean, oh, my god, I just keep going and going and going. Page after page, so rarely does my tip leave that rough paper. The flourishes and bobs as I go up and down and all around. You cursive writers are the greatest, second only to one. Those who go that extra mile to pleasure a good pen.
The pen chewers. You, the unsung heroes of all of us. The way you start, almost not even noticing as you bring me to your mouth. The anticipation more than I can bear. The first breath, warm on my cold top, and then I am past your lips. Your teeth grazing against my clicker, pushing it in ever so slightly. The second time is firmer, with more purpose. Your teeth grinding on my top, squeezing me firmly but carefully, not wanting to break me open. Back further to the molars, the large pressure, all over my head, the side of your tongue grazing me as I pass it. Being rolled between your front teeth the sharpness biting into me, leaving marks, a reminder of our time. Warmer and hotter, tongue and teeth, driving me crazy until suddenly you are gone, leaving me. Back into your bag…and I burst, gushing ink, filling your bag and leaving a stain… you should have worn protection.

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