I arrive at your door.
I drop to my knees.
I look like a fucking whore.
My dirty blonde hair is up in pigtails. You want to grab me by them like they’re handles and direct my head to a more opportune location. I’m wearing just enough black eye makeup to make it run when you face fuck me. And you will face fuck me. You’ve been waiting.
I look like a fucking whore.
I’m wearing a plain leather collar wrapped around my neck. It’s matte black, except for a silver metal stud and loop at the front. You’ve clipped on a leash to it. That was your choice for the evening. You decided I would be leashed. The end of the leash that isn’t attached to my neck is in your hand. Where it belongs.
I look like a fucking whore.
My body is barely contained by the pink, flowery dress I’m wearing. The top wraps around my substantial tits and binds them in the perfect position. Perfect for what? Staring. Groping. Fucking. Slapping. Pinching. All things you’ve done before. But you appreciate the constriction of the dress all the same.