I asked about your masturbation and you told me. An answer that wasn’t exactly the easiest for me to hear.
I’m a toddler. I want to be the center of every woman’s world. If you’re masturbating, I want you thinking about me. And if you’re not thinking about me, I don’t want you masturbating. I don’t mean this in a directive, demanding way, exactly. But rather in a deep, raw, emotional, and vulnerable way.
I do, though, want you masturbating, thinking about me. I want you, once again, to have as a live image in your mind the image of your thighs pressing against my ears. My fingers deep in your cunt. My tongue on your clit. Maybe a thumb in your ass as you writhe.
I want that in your head as, face down on your bed, you play with yourself using — as you said — your hands, your fingers.
Or maybe, maybe, you’ll let me buy you a special toy. One that’s just for us. You like masturbating with your hands and fingers? Cool. Keep doing that. But let me send you a special gift. Maybe a bullet. Maybe a wand. Maybe a rabbit. I don’t know. Something. Something special that’s just between us — that you can use on those rare occasions when the orgasm you want is one filled with imagined sensations of my cock in your mouth, of my cock pressing into your pussy, of your body convulsing in pleasure around me.
Maybe I’m a little cart before horse here. Maybe this is premature. Maybe it’s not.
One thing is certain, though: our time is limited. If you’re doing a dance — a dance of monogamy — I want to cut in before it’s too late.
Featured image prompt (gemini): Cinematic photography, warm amber lamplight, hotel room at night. A woman lying face-down across a rumpled white bed, shot from low and close at the foot of the bed, camera level with her hips. She wears a sheer black babydoll chemise, hem ridden up to expose the full curve of her bare hips and the top of lace-edged briefs, one thin strap fallen from her shoulder. Her face is turned to the side, lips slightly parted, eyes half-closed — private, absorbed, miles away. Dark hair loose across the pillow. The bedside lamp behind her makes the sheer fabric glow translucent at the thigh. The room around her is dim, intimate, closed off from the world. 35mm lens, shallow depth of field, the near ankle soft in blur, all the weight falling on her hips and waist.
Bottom image prompt (openai): Large-format still-life photograph, deep-focus, shot on 8×10 film with hard directional light raking from one side. A bedside table in a dim, amber-lit room: a glass of water, a phone face-down, and a small wrapped package — neat ribbon, anonymous box — placed precisely at the table’s edge, as if just set down and not yet opened. The wrapping paper is a deep, bruised violet, wrong against the warm wood grain. The lamplight is too orange, too close, casting one hard shadow the wrong direction. Nothing else. No figure. The gift sits there, unchosen and unchosen still.