#fox wrote

I want to take it slowly. I want to spend hours in gently building anticipation, little touches through clothing and tiny kisses between regular moments of the day. Grip the insides of my thighs and pull me closer as we snuggle fully dressed, the television burbling in the background. Brush your knuckles along the back of my neck when you pass my chair, keep reminding my skin of the way it feels when you touch elsewhere - but still don’t hurry, even when it’s too much and we fall into bed, even when I’m wriggling against you and pleading. Please don’t rush. Please. Draw your fingertips across the outside of my underwear and make patterns that are only barely there. Stop when I move too much, trying too hard to arch and push into that minute point of contact, withdrawing your hands to stroke the skin of my ribs or the sides of my hips or to move the circling to my chest, infuriatingly wonderfully firmer in your touches as you pinch and kiss me here but won’t give me that feeling any lower. Only maybe do you slip beneath the fabric, teasing along the sides of the seams and smiling at my desperation for them to be removed. And even then, why should you change your pace? Draw your hand along one thigh and across to the other, writing messages I can’t read as you coax my body into falling apart for needing you. Experiment and explore at your leisure, making lazy passes up and down and up and down but not between, whispering commentary about patience and rewards and waiting. When I jump and shift and pull against the sheets, tell me you’ll stop, that if I wanted you to continue I’d be still. Take your time to drive me utterly incoherent. And only then, only when you think I’ve waited long enough, when you’ve teased towards getting your fingers wet too many times to count and never committed to the movement, when I’ve thought you’d finally press against me only to withdraw and return to slowly stroking my legs, only then please be more direct, only then please kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow, only then make the fireworks happen between us and fill every sense with you.

I’d like the specific satisfaction of knowing he missed me, he wants me, he’s wriggly and aching and desperate and mine and touching himself and edging repeatedly and craving the moment I get back home and maybe give him permission, maybe deny him, but I’m there to tease him and remind him where he belongs. But I’d also quite like the reassurance of how much he missed me to look like being instructed onto the bed and told to spread my legs. Ah, switching.

I want romance. But romance like slow kisses that lead to him fucking my ass, or romance like being gagged and cuffed and forced to cum too many times, or romance like soft strokes across my skin whilst his hand is around my neck. My romantic ideals might not look like everyone else’s.

I want to give him the world. I want to be soft and compliant, whatever he wants, and when he comes home from work to be a warm and willing little toy. If he needs to take from my skin, I want that. If he needs me quiet and pliable whilst he takes what he wants, if he needs me squirming and wriggling away from things that hurt then I’m there for that too. Or if he just wants me to make him feel good, to relax whilst I do my best to please him, we can do that. I need him to hold the power and use it however he likes, whether that’s in cuddling or sending me to bed or making use of what’s his. I just want him to be happy.

I don’t entirely love my body. But there’s something really important to me about how much time I’m spending undressed nowadays, about how it’s kind of really not such a big deal, about the increased comfort level created by being so very loved and trusting that it’s okay to be squishy and naked. I don’t know. It just feels like another wonderful thing in this latest chapter of my life, and I’m rather enjoying it.