Counting to stroke my cock, the thoughts move to the way that she would spend her mornings, making sure that every strand of her hair was in place, that her makeup was put on just so. The way she would put on that fire engine red lipstick. When she would put it on again right after she had given me a kiss, or better yet, sucked my cock leaving a red ring at the base. That thought usually had my cumming, but not today, today my thoughts go on.  I have to be misremembering the smell of her perfume, that expensive shit, what was it again Dolche. The way she would splash that stuff on multiple times throughout the day and night. How my pillow would smell after she left and how I would bury my face in it after that summer until the smell was no more. Fuck, just the memory of her rubbing her wrists together, it gets me harder than steel, but still I don’t come.  My mind moves to her body, her long luscious legs, her full breasts, the dimples in her ass, even her little pink pearl, and the ink that covered most of it. The way the lines and colors, patterns and pictures told her story. A story that she told me over countless hours piece by piece putting together the puzzle of her life in ink. My strokes became frenzied as I continued to think about how I would kiss and caress each as she would spin the tales. How she would moan when I would graze my teeth over her skin or sigh as I would breath into her ear, forcing the hairs on her neck to stand up.