I love it when you schedule a session but you can’t stop thinking of me in the meantime. And so you’re in my DMs begging to send. Offering gifts. Wanting attention.
Mistress.
Goddess.
Please.
Please.
Your anticipation. The waiting. The way you can’t stop thinking about the next time I text you back…
It’s delicious.
When I slip my stockinged feet into knee-high black boots and walk with confidence down the street…it’s for me, not you.
When I massage lotion across my skin, letting my hands glide pleasurably over every curve, keeping the skin soft, supple…it’s for me, not you.
When I strip down to my underwear, take a teasing photo…it’s for me, not you.
When I place delicate body jewelry under my clothes…
When I toss my hair casually to one side…
When I close my eyes and savor the taste of that coffee you bought me…
When I slip the silky lingerie you sent over my skin…
It is for me. I am doing it for me.
My pleasure.
My power.
My sexiness.
My joy.
My self.
If you’re lucky enough to get pleasure from my joy, I’m happy for you. But it was never for you. It never centered you. It never will.