People assume I’m immune. That I guide, tease, dominate, but stay untouched.
That while your body quivers under my hands, mine stays calm. Cool. Unmoved.
But let me tell you something you’ve probably fantasised about.
I get so turned on.
When the chemistry is real, when the connection hums beneath our skin, it’s impossible not to respond. A slow ache builds deep between my thighs. Heat floods low in my belly. Sometimes I can feel my pulse there, throbbing, aching, wanting.
My nipples tighten beneath silk and lace, and I shift ever so slightly, pressing my legs together, trying to stay composed while arousal trickles through me. That arousal, that erotic heat, it fuels the experience, sharpens it, deepens it.
Knowing I could use your mouth, your hands, …
Knowing how easy it would be to slide my fingers inside myself while you’re bound and begging.
But I don’t. Not yet.
Because the longer I wait, the more intense and intoxicating it becomes.
And there are moments, sweet, wicked moments, when I’m not just in control…I’m on fire.
My nipples harden to sharp peaks. My hips start to move without me even thinking.
I press into the edge of the bed, chasing friction, grinding softly, needing it.
My whole body is on. Every sound you make, every twitch under my hands, I feel it.
Feeling your body tense, surrender. It’s not just erotic, it’s fuel.
I’m barely holding back.
I don’t always touch myself in the moment. But my mind is racing.
And sometimes, when I’m alone after, I take that heat with me. I sink into my sheets, replaying the way your hips moved beneath my palm, how your body surrendered completely. And I slip my fingers lower, still aroused by the lingering memory of you.
So next time you notice the way I breath a little deeper, the way my thighs shift ever so slightly, know this:
I’m right there with you.
And maybe just maybe, next time, I’ll let you feel exactly what you do to me.
Yours in control,
Emma x