“Hear the beautiful music we make when we fuck?” I asked crudely. I would make him remember this. I would engrain this sound into every fiber of his being. Any time he heard the slapping of water, the slippery, squelching sound of slickness, the hard smacking of sweaty skin colliding with sweaty skin, of wetness personified, he would think of me. I would be his ocean, and he would fucking yearn for me.
