Don’t ask me what I want, I want dominant. I don’t want to be asked I want to be made. I want to be told and pulled throat first down on your cock, hair in your fists, eyes watering and sated. I want to be brought back up for air, briefly, back against the wall, back in your line of sight, bowing, sweating, begging. I want to be held up by the neck, fingers pressed against my lips sweetly and falsely. I want eye contact that shuts me down.
Don’t call me a good girl, I don’t want approval. Call me a whore. Call me all of the things you can’t love on principal or in real life. Call me over and over again to get me alone, vulnerable, knees down and dirty on the floor of a darkroom, bloodshot. Call me because you know when you say jump I’ll offer you my spit and my face and a body to clean up on. Call me lowly because you know I’m already waiting and I’ll hear. Call me easy and whenever you like. I’ll listen.
Don’t give, I want to be taken. Mark me, up. Draw me in and watch me strive. Put me down and in my place. Strike and render the blow earned. Plunge and I’ll relax back into it, arched, curved, twisted into what makes you push yourself harder into me. Canvas and clay. Mold me into what suits you. Give me a brush and I’ll stroke.
Don’t forget where I stand–below you. Make me something from which you want results. Reign me in, collect me, pool me effectively at your feet, my gaze wide and pleasing, your cock in my hand, leave me wanting and speaking in tongues that plead.
Don’t break. Don’t break the dominance and don’t give in. Don’t need rest. Don’t untie/unfasten/unravel. Don’t stop. Don’t forget that if you’ve got me here you’ve got me more than most. We’ll say for argument’s sake that it was all for you.