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Being on display ✨

Locked and laced overnight made for a very desperate girl this morning.

Half asleep overnight, I'd wake up to my hand reaching to rub my clit and break my brain a little more every time I ran into steel instead... That was fun.

I'm getting sluttier.....

Needier....

Emptier....

Dumber....

Gigglier....

Then just… laying my tongue flat across your cunt. Just resting there, wide and warm and still, feeling you throb against me. Tasting you. Taking you all in. My tongue right there, right on you, and giving you nothing other than hot breath on your skin. Just the weight of it. Just heat and wet and the knowledge that I could flick once and you’d come apart completely. But you know I don’t want that.

You’re squirming but there’s nowhere to go. Your wrists are tied and my mouth is right there and it’s almost worse than if I wasn’t touching you at all. At least then there’d be some hope of settling down. But that’s impossible when I’m exactly where you need me and choosing to stay still. You say please into the air above you. I hear it. I don’t move. You say it again. Still nothing.

And while he’s busy he gave you one simple rule: rub your cunt until he says stop. So you keep going. Your clit so sensitive it feels like it’s vibrating on its own. Coated in your own juices, dripping onto the floor, drifting in and out of a haze of exhaustion and overstimulation. You want to beg him to let you cum, or just to let you rest, but you know better.

You’re just background noise to him. A sex toy he left running while he focuses on things too complicated for you to understand. So you keep those fingers moving, because you’re his good little fuck doll.

Direct messages to you ✨

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.