“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.…

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’…