Mister Pete

Whenever I masturbate, I fantasize about Mister Pete. I have no idea what Mister Pete’s real names might be, so I just call him Mister Pete. He might be an experience that I’ve had in the past, or hope to have in the future.

Mister Pete is white, he’s black, he’s red, he’s Latino, or he’s Asian. Sometimes he’s young and sometimes he’s old. He might be an American or from some place in the Caribbean, or for that matter anyplace else in the world. He may be alone, or perhaps he’s brought along a friend or two.

Mister Pete is a shape-shifter.

Mister Pete is probably not the sort of man most women want to take home to meet their momma. Mister Pete is strictly, totally desensitized. That’s his style. One thing is for sure, though. Mister Pete is very understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for, he’s the kind of man who likes to take advantage of it.

When I masturbate I think of Mister Pete and my fingers dance around my clit. But Mister Pete hasn’t got time for such silliness, and pretty soon my fingers are deep inside me, twisting inside the hole and pulling apart the walls. The way Mister Pete likes it; showing Mister Pete the type of bitch I am. All raw and nasty for Mister Pete.

Fuck me like a street bitch, Mister Pete. I crave it. Total slut treatment. Please, Mister Pete. I need it!

He knows I need it.

I ain’t nothin’ nice!