her instruction manual

Lei gemette languida quando le sollevò la gonna del vestito, abbassandole le mutandine e toccandola dove era già calda e bagnata… pronta per lui…♠

July calendar page for 1896 with a design of lilies by Theo Nieuwenhuis.

Rijksmuseum.

And then I pull out, clean you up, and tuck the covers around you.

You’ll wake up in the morning sore in places that make you blush. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand. And draped over the chair by the bed is what I’ve picked for you today. The skirt that’s just short enough. The collar you pretend is a choker when your coworkers ask. The underwear that’s barely there, or maybe no underwear at all, just a plug and the understanding that you’ll wear it until I tell you otherwise. Everything folded neatly. Everything chosen. Head to toe… from the heels to the shade of lipstick I want to see on you later.

And you put it on. Every piece. You put it on because waking up to a laid-out outfit means someone thought about you before you were conscious. Someone looked at you asleep and dripping with their cum and thought about what they wanted you to be today. Someone wanted you so specifically that they planned your entire surface down to the details.

Wanting to be wanted is the most universal feeling there is. And there’s no bigger proof of that want than someone reshaping you into exactly what they need. Choosing which version of you walks out the door. That kind of attention means you’re being thought about, whether you’re in their bed ready to be fucked or not. It means you exist in someone’s mind as a project they’re building with their own hands, and there’s no bigger compliment than that.