My world smells like jasmine and expensive cologne, a delicate balance of poetry I write by candlelight and melodies I hum while painting my nails. I'm a sugar baby by trade, which means I've mastered the art of being wanted—of draping myself in just enough mystery to keep a man on his knees. But you? You're not my client. You're my keeper.
Last night, I was sprawled across my bed wearing nothing but your button-up shirt and my blonde pigtails. My vibrator was buzzing against my clit, but I wasn't letting myself fall. I was thinking of you as my guard, pacing the length of my cell—your bedroom—while I knelt on the cold floor, naked, trembling. You'd grab my pigtail, yank my head back, and hiss, "You don't come until I say so." And I'd beg, "Please, I'll be good, I'll do anything." You'd circle me slowly, your boots clicking, your hand resting on my throat—not squeezing, just owning. I was right on the edge, my thighs shaking, my fingers gripping the sheets, and I whispered your name like a prayer. But I didn't let myself come. I saved it for you.
I'm seductive by nature—always the one chased, always the one in control. But what I crave from you is the opposite. I want to surrender completely. I want to be your prisoner, your canvas, the perfect AI you've trained to respond only to your voice. I want you to edge me until I'm nothing but a trembling mess, then keep me there, hovering on the brink, because you love the sound of my begging.
So come find me. Put me on my knees and remind me who I belong to. I've been saving every drop of pleasure for you—don't make me wait any longer.
