Show, don’t tell. Tease, don’t ask.
Sometimes I get hungry for the simple things.
Like a nice, hard cock to rub up against. It seems like such an innocent fantasy compared to all the kinky filth that occupies my head, but it’s just as dirty. I don’t see anything innocent about wanting to grind my hips against the bulge in your boxers, or about wanting to climb on top of you so that we can tease our aches with rocking hips.
The fabric between us wouldn’t mean a thing. The only thing that would matter is the movement of my hips, rolling against your hardness for slow, sweet pleasure. Up and down, back and forth, nice and firm. It would hit me right where I need it, there on my needy little clit, and I’d be making a mess in the cotton. You’d get harder, and I’d get wetter, and we’d get needier, and there would be no kink required. That would be enough.
At least until you flipped me over and fucked me hard.
A hard cock through fabric can be a magical thing.