I am a 27 year old woman. I’m in a relationship I’m trying to get out of, because the man loves his mother— I mean really “loves” his mother. He doesn’t want me to leave, but I have to. But I have been lying in bed awake, dreaming of a man, craving a man, who wants nothing other than to perform for me. To make my brain light up with joy or arousal as he talks to me. Who submits to the process of doing the work to figure out what would make me happiest and give me that, trying little characters on, bringing out costumes, working to seduce me with every action and decision. I want someone who begs me, slowly at first, for a simple touch, just because it’s exciting to me. I want to see someone turned on by exciting me. I imagine a man who can turn me on with a single look, a single sound. Someone who crawls to me. Someone who needs to please me. I want to feel enraptured as he puts his face in my neck and slips himself inside of me, showing me that he’d rather be in me than anywhere else in the world. I want someone who asks me to take him away, or does the work to take me away, and details a need for a flogging over dinner. I want. So much. So badly.
I would attend to you. You would be only mine, and I wouldn’t share. I would dominate all of your time, when you weren’t working. Talking in my living room I’d teach you how to fix my drinks the way I like them, without any ice, and in my bed, I’d demand a full performance— a firm performance, as long as you can cope without breaking. You’d practice making sweet little noises for me without any bashfulness, or awareness of an audience other than me. You’d have every reason to stay with me alone, fulfilling every whim, sexual and otherwise. I’d care about you. I’d want you.
I’m waiting for the first time you ask me if you can slip your cock inside of me, the pressed breaths of anticipation, the needy moans as you start to move.
I would attend to you. You would be only mine, and I wouldn’t share. I would dominate all of your time, when you weren’t working. Talking in my living room I’d teach you how to fix my drinks the way I like them, without any ice, and in my bed, I’d demand a full performance— a firm performance, as long as you can cope without breaking. You’d practice making sweet little noises for me without any bashfulness, or awareness of an audience other than me. You’d have every reason to stay with me alone, fulfilling every whim, sexual and otherwise. I’d care about you. I’d want you.
I’m waiting for the first time you ask me if you can slip your cock inside of me, the pressed breaths of anticipation, the needy moans as you start to move.
