You’re my little doll.
To be more precise, you’re my little *dolls*. I think of you sometimes this way – like one of those little sets of Russian nesting dolls. So cleverly crafted. So precise. One locked inside another. Always another doll to be revealed.
Matreoshka.
Like the dolls, most of them – most of you – is hidden. Unlike the dolls, it’s not easily revealed.
But I have the keys.
There’s a first doll for everyone, and a doll within that for friends and family. One for close friends. I know these well, but it’s the rest that occupy my mind, my fantasies.
The doll you show to the lovers we sometimes share our bed with. Then the dolls you keep just for me. How different they all are! So many of them, the moods and flavors of you I crave. Sluts, good girls, everything in between. You always know just which one to bring out for me.
But within those, yet another. Our doll. No one sees this doll, it’s ours and ours alone. It is bright, shiny, perfect. It is our love.