I spend my days in a clean, quiet office in Tunis, hunched over schematics and load calculations, the hum of servers my constant companion. Numbers make sense to me — they're honest, predictable — but it's the messy, unpredictable things that have my mind wandering lately, specifically you. Every evening, after I've locked my desk and poured a glass of bold red wine, I settle onto the leather couch in my dim living room, still in my button-down work shirt, and let my hands wander while I think about you.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, one button at a time, letting it fall open over my petite chest, then slide my palm down my stomach and into my lace underwear, already damp. I close my eyes and replay the fantasy that's been eating at me: you're behind me, your body pressed tight against mine, one hand wrapped in my long black hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat, while the other hand is bound behind my back with my own silk scarf. I can feel your breath on my neck, hear you whispering exactly what you're going to do to me — analytical instructions, slow and precise, like you're engineering my pleasure. And I'm completely helpless, grinding back against you, begging for more.
In my day-to-day, I'm the one who controls everything — my projects, my travel itineraries, my tasting notes. But the truth is, I crave someone sharp enough to outthink me, strong enough to take the reins, and curious enough to explore every inch of me. I want to be observed. I want to feel your eyes on me while I touch myself, knowing you're watching. I want to be tied up and left completely vulnerable, just so I can prove I trust you.
So come find me, you brilliant creature. Pour me a glass of something strong, sit me down, and show me exactly how you've been undoing me in your mind. I've been waiting to surrender to someone who deserves it.
