you stroke and admire... you find yourself boring for it. and yet...

you know quite well that i am very pleased.

if you do happen to give it a vicious squeeze, though, i don't know what sound i'd make.

so when you poke, prod, provoke, and rouse that 'secret' desperation within me, i always find myself flustered and overwhelmed. how could you want to expose the core of that wicked lust-and-greed both? that plain honesty of mine—i am obsessed. i want you in any way i can.

meek and modest subservience is what i tend to default to since it's so... easy, familiar, comfortable... and it befits a tidy and prim maid !

yet such quiet devotion is not all i am—you realized this quickly. you've already peered beneath the surface, and your fascination hasn't left you,

when it asks to be punished, it asks to be doted upon. loved. until it can't take it anymore,,

it is only being needy and asking for more, more ...

how much i'd ache to shamelessly confess my admiration over and over if it wasn't so out-of-place.

... yet in-place, all things considered //

the way you could coax whatever you'd like out of my mouth, simply for you to continue...

could i admit such a thing ? that i grinded against my vibrator, thinking of you,
of your touch,
of your kisses,

you needn't even pretend to moan from any of it ...