You’re My Pile of Riches, and I Want to Luxuriate in You.

That’s right, pet. Down on your knees for me now, the weight of your body bearing down on hard wood. Supplication. Dedication. Instruction. We both know it’s where you belong. Don’t we? You down there, staring up at me with those wide-eyed puppy dog eyes just begging to serve.

To obey.

I do love to see you beg. And whimper. And moan. And knowing that it’s all for me! That your frustration and desperation and eagerness is all mine.

I own it.

I guess I’m just selfish that way. I want to keep all of your joy, misery, delicious exotic torment for myself.

Delight in it. Binge on it. Feed off it.

You’re my pile of riches, and I want to luxuriate in you.

Up now. Turn around and let me look at you. Really see you. Inspect you. Trust that every part of you is what I love and nothing at all is out of place. After all, every single molecule of that body belongs to me, corporeal and spiritual. Mind and body. Both.

And believe that I’ll care for you. My most precious of toys. Most beloved of objects. My subject. My predicate. 😉 I’ll never hurt you more than you need. Never give you too little. Or too much. After all, I know you.

Don’t I?

I know what YOU feed off of. My pleasure. My desire. My approval. And although I make you earn all of it, stripe by stripe, lick by lick, groan by breathtaking, hot, world shattering groan, you do. You earn it all.

And more.

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