Are you tired of living a very secret life? Have deep dark fantasies that prevent you from really enjoying your orgasms during vanilla sex? Come and take a journey with me.
“This isn’t a poem. It’s an alibi.”
Journee doesn’t write erotica. She breathes it into your ears while you forget how to breathe. Thick. Slow. Ruthless. This is more than face-sitting — it’s full-body submission in verse form. Just listen. If you can.
Recorded in one take. No background track. Just breath, thighs, and a voice that doesn’t ask permission.
This is how Journee teaches you to worship with your mouth full.
Ain’t nothin’ like the thrill of hearin’ you pant, Whisperin’ in my ear, tellin’ me where it’s at. I’m Journee, your phone sex operator, baby, Pleasin’ you all night, leavin’ you shaky.
My voice, so smooth, like honey and silk, Turnin’ you on, watchin’ you wilt. I love the power, I love the control, Makin’ you cum, that’s my ultimate goal.
I’m Journee, your phone sex queen, Gettin’ you off, makin’ you feen. Filthy talk, kinky desires, I’m stokin’ the flames, fanin’ the fires.
I paint a picture, vivid and clear, Of all the things we could do, if you were here. My words, so graphic, so deliciously dirty, Your mind, blown, as I get dirty.
I imagine you, touchin’ yourself, Reachin’ for the stars, climbin’ that shelf. I’m right there with you, in your mind’s eye, Cummin’ together, under the sky.
I’m your filthy fantasy, your secret wish, Your late-night call, when you can’t resist. I’m the one who knows what you need, The one who can make you plead.
I’m Journee, your phone sex queen, Gettin’ you off, makin’ you keen. Filthy talk, kinky desires, I’m stokin’ the flames, fanin’ the fires.
So when you’re feelin’ lonely, or just in the mood, Give me a call, I’ll do what I could. I’m Journee, your phone sex operator, baby, The one who’ll make you scream, “Oh, Journee!”
