Fleshbot

Our relationship had become three-dimensional, and fucking was off the table. I was damned if I was going to let that stop me.

The orgasm is mine, not yours.

R sends me the sound of her coming, and then tells me, in words, exactly what she did. FUCK is this hot.

A slow, detailed striptease I’d like you to perform for me.

You sit feet from me, and every small, calculated move you make sends me spiraling.

A midday visit, a pencil skirt, a conference call, and the question of when, exactly, to start fingering her.

Driving through the meatpacking district, I told her to cum for me. She did.

Pack a bag, but we’re not going anywhere. I just want to watch you model every last thing in it — and render every pair of panties unwearable.

Words, cock, hands, tongue, imagination, demands — these are what I trade in. Give me your compliance, your arousal, your sounds, your images, and I promise: I will only ask for more.

Here’s what I want. It’s simple, really.