In her mind

I always want to be in her mind.

Doesn’t matter who “she” is. Doesn’t matter all that much how she thinks of me. But I want her thinking of me.

I have good historical reasons for fetishizing this state; it makes me feel alive, makes me know I’m alive, in a way that I crave, that I value, that I pursue compulsively, obsessively.

I ask much of the women with whom I interact. I ask for photos, for videos, for audio. I ask that they do as I ask, that they give me time, that they give me effort. The truth is, though, that really, more than anything, I want two things: to know that they’re thinking of me, and to know that they know me.

If I had my druthers, if you were devoted to me, you would (in addition to locking yourself in a cage, only to be let out when I wish, kidding not kidding) pepper me throughout the day with images of your face, your thighs, your cunt (clothed). Your breasts, your ass, your body (all clothed). You would, periodically, ask if I want anything from you. You would offer me small – and big – windows of time to spend as I might wish. And, you would take pleasure in, delight in, get wet from, offering me all this.

A lot to ask?


But. It can be done.

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