You watch from afar

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.

You should.