You called and we spoke candidly about nothing, but your inflection speaks for itself. You deny me of salacious words for your own entertainment. I grow increasingly frustrated as the conversation slows, and to my dismay, you announce that you should go. All self-control and self-awareness escapes me. I try to articulate my frustration, but my words are vague and amuse you less and less. One could call me coy, but in truth I am entirely ashamed of my desire.
You dislike my embarrassment but always revel in it. There’s no need to hear me moan as I touch myself, no, the knowledge that I’ll succumb to pleasure after you’re gone is more than sufficient. You neither suggest nor expect that I ask you to stay, but you’ll indulge me if I beg.
Lucky me.
Tonight, your voice drowns my sense of responsibility. You, the tantalizingly disinterested autocrat; me, the ostensibly innocent subject. This is your favorite game, and the final move is my surrender. I offer you my sincerest gratitude, for I am always grateful for the opportunity to please you. Perhaps dominance is of less interest to you than my submission. Power is inherent, the crown is superfluous. My supplication delights you.