I should probably tell you...

If you pull my panties to the side instead of telling me to take them off, I’ll melt. It feels like an inspection, like you’re still deciding if you’ll fuck me or not. Push a finger or two into my pussy and talk to me—God, please talk to me. Remark on what a slut I am, or tell me I’m a good little girl because I’m so wet for you, or coo condescendingly about how desperate I am to be touched.

Don’t fuck me, though. Keep touching me until I’m dripping down my thighs.

Do the same thing when I’m wearing a skirt. Bend me over the nearest table, push my skirt up, and tug my underwear down around my thighs. Fuck me until you come, then walk away, leaving me wobbly-kneed and slick with your come and my own wetness.

Fuck me when I’m sleeping. Wake me up with a particularly hard thrust. When I mumble a sleepy protest, call me a fucktoy and tell me to shut my mouth before you gag me.

Make me sit on a dildo while I work. Force me to come with your cock up my ass. Mock me for how wet I get. When I say no, dont, stop, push me down onto my knees and fuck my face, telling me it’s all my mouth is good for anyway. Rip my jeans open at the ass and finger me until I’m begging.

I’m a simple girl with simple needs, really. Just remind me that my holes are yours.