“Fuck Me, Daddy,” I trace in red lipstick with firm pressure and steady hand on the Cheval mirror in the bedroom. I stand back to critique. It isn’t rushed and scribbled, but rather signifies intent. I intend to be your cum slut tonight. I planned this thoroughly and the attention to detail will be appreciated. You’ll see it as soon as you enter the room.
The mirror is carefully angled to capture the queen-sized bed that fills my mid-twenties apartment bedroom, and as I admire my work, I can see in the background of the reflection the headboard you’ll undoubtedly have me gripping for dear life in T-minus thirty minutes. The sheets are freshly pressed, the duvet lovingly smoothed across, thousands of tiny threads bracing themselves for the pressure of our bodies pounding against them, our juices soaking into them, our fists wrinkling them in ecstasy-induced grips.
Before assumptions are made, this is not a sexy idea to revive a dying relationship or a desperate attempt to spice things up. This is our everyday. You are insatiable and I’ve become an expert on every little fantasy that makes you tick. My sexual resume is highlighted by my impressive experience of fellatio and screwing your brains out. My creativity and spontaneity excite you and I study your favorite porn like a med student devours textbooks.
I send you dirty texts when I clearly know you’re working, I go panty-less when we have public social appearances to make, and I go well out of my way to ensure you’re always satisfied. You know all these things already of course, but I remind you often because men are visual creatures, and I want the memories burned into your mind. I want you squirming in meetings thinking of my ass up against you, your cock buried deep in my pussy, for years to come.
T-minus twenty minutes. My skin is soft and delicate to the touch, laced with a subtle hint of soap. I just barely tease my fingertips across my nipples and they immediately raise to meet my touch. My body instinctively knows you are on your way over. I perch myself on the edge of my bed so I can watch myself in the mirror, my upper body propped up so I can have the best view.
My fingers spread my pussy lips open and I can already tell how ready I am for you. My chest heaves with heavy breaths of arousal and I rock my hips to search for some relief. I want you here. Now. My middle finger slips inside and my eyes slightly widen as I realize just how wet I am, my breath escaping in a sigh. My hips are bucking against my hand as my clit begs for attention. Dammit, drive faster.
T-minus ten minutes. My hand is drenched and I imagine you will smell my sweet scent as soon as you enter the front foyer. As I watch myself methodically finger fucking my tight pussy, I feel a brief pang of guilt that I’m starting without you. I’m considering this somewhat of a pre-game, if you will, because we both know I will come harder and louder with your own fingers working inside me. I predict it won’t take long. When you see what I’m wearing and the toys I’ve set out on the nightstand, I doubt there will be any conversation or formalities at all.
T-minus five minutes. Much like Pavlov’s dogs, I can feel my mouth physically producing more saliva as I anticipate my meal. I close my eyes and imagine myself drooling all over your cock, sucking hard so my cheeks cave in, strategically running the tip of my tongue along the ridge of the head. You will want to skip straight to the entrée, but I always insist on an appetizer first, dropping to my knees as you grab the back of the head and fuck my face.
I want to drain the cum out of your cock. A long string of spit will run from your body to my lips, my chin soaked. I vaguely realize as I lay waiting on my bed that my lips are now tight around my own finger, sucking off my juices as I daydream of you. We fit, perfectly, in every way.
My eyes snap open when I hear it.
The key in the lock.
