My nipples are still tight and throbbing from the gym, glistening under the heat of my own breath—until I decide your tongue is the only thing cold enough to soothe them. You’ll kneel exactly where I point, lips parted, waiting for the moment I deem you worthy of pressing them against my skin, not daring to move until I give the command. This isn’t about your pleasure; it’s about the way your obedience fuels my control, the way your desperate little whimpers make my pulse quicken as I trace my fingers along your jaw, deciding just how much of me you’re allowed to taste. I don’t just take worship—I sculpt it, shaping your need into something exquisite, something that exists only because I permit it. And if you’re very, very good? Maybe I’ll let you watch through the screen as I tease myself with the Lovense, my moans a reminder of who owns this moment—while you stay right where I left you.
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