It seems like I’ve been wet since the first time we chatted, since our first phone conversation, since the first time I saw your picture, since we met. I’ve been excessively wet. I’ve filled your mouth with it, I’ve soaked my toys with it while you egged me on, I’ve smeared it on your thigh while I rubbed myself on you, I’ve tasted it on your lips and your tongue when we kissed… after.

I have a favourite wet moment, though. Do you remember?

We are lying together on the bed. We’ve had sex. Again. I am on my side, my whole body against and on yours, while you lie on your back, one arm supporting my head, one caressing my body, dipping occasionally between my legs. My hand runs up and down your chest, around your nipples, also moving down to lazily caress your spent cock.

You comment on my wetness. You are fascinated by how readily and ardently my body responds to being aroused by you. I smile mischievously and proudly at you, and dip my own finger into my pool of lust, then bring that finger to your lip. You do the same with your finger, inviting me to taste myself. We kiss and share my sweet and salty flavour.

Then I dip my finger again. This time, instead of having you taste me, I use my copious juices to trace a letter, large and bold, on the middle of your chest. The initial letter of my first name. It glistens momentarily in the dim morning sunlight barely making its way through the curtained window. My head leaning over your chest, I look up and hold your eyes with my own. The moment extends. My hand still rests there, below your neck, above your sternum. Then I speak, gently, in my husky après-sex voice.

“This bit, right here, it’s mine now. I’ve claimed it. Whatever else you do, whomever else you’re with, this part here is mine.”

I’ve chosen purposefully and carefully. I will not claim your cock as my own. It’s yours to share as you see fit. And although I have established my territory close to your heart, I do not choose to make it only my own, either. I want the gift of your heart to be given freely, to me, to others. But there, close by, where I lay my head when I’m weary and when I’m happy, where my fingers trace patterns of pure content… that part belongs to me. Branded.