You read my words.
Your pussy aches while you wait for my next post.
It throbs when the post appears.
You read it, hoping it will be written in a way that resonates for you, that allows you to imagine (to know?) that the words were written for you. To you.
You ponder writing me. Telling me what I am doing to you. What you want me to do to you. What you hope I’ll let you do to, for, me.