I haven’t met you, but I know you. We haven’t spoken, yet the deep timbre of your voice gives me chills. We haven’t touched, yet I know your hands, hard-working and callused, can be both firm and gentle.
I haven’t met you, but everything about your demeanor screams “Dominant”. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to learn that “Alpha” had been branded into your fair skin. We haven’t spoken, but I know that you would command me with the authority I so crave. I long to please you and earn your praise. We haven’t touched, but I can feel your fingernails against my scalp when you tuck my hair. The roughness of your fingertips as you tease, tickle, and torment my sensitive skin. The warmth of your palm as it cracks against my ass, giving me the discipline I’ve desired.
I haven’t met you, but I know she never gave you what you wanted. We haven’t spoken, but I’ve heard the confusion in your voice when she told you know. We haven’t touched, but the tension in your posture rolled off you in waves. When you finally walked away from her, your relief was similarly tangible.
I hadn’t met you, but something gave me the courage to approach you. We hadn’t spoken, but I wasn’t surprised by your dry sense of humor, your love of adventure, your educated critiques of books and movies, or your drive to succeed. We hadn’t touched, but I wasn’t alone in feeling a charge when we shook hands to part.
I know you, and you give me what I need. I shiver in anticipation as I wait for you. I kneel on the plush carpet patiently. You’ve ordered that nothing should cover my sun-kissed skin as they wait for you to come home to me. I don’t speak as I watch you approach. Your jeans are dusty and your shirt is damp, evidence of the summer heat. The text of your ears and crests of your cheeks are flushed from your time in the sun. I don’t touch you, no matter how badly I want to. My hands clasp the back of my neck, holding back my hair, exposing all of me to your hungry gaze.
I know you, so I can divine your desires from your posture, the clench of your jaw, and the glint in your eyes. I can tell if you’re feeling playful or stressed, generous or greedy, strict or indulgent. Your baby blues have weight as they trace my lips. I don’t speak, but my mouth opens with an unspoken invitation. You unclasp your belt in acceptance. Your silent faith in me speaks volumes. I don’t touch you, not until you give me permission. One large hand wraps over my smaller ones, holding me still. You watch as your free hand traces my lips with your cock. With what feels like reverence, you slide over my tongue. Long fingers tap my chin, a signal for me to close my mouth around you.
I know you, so I wait. This pleases you. Your hand moves from mine to nestle into my hair. I can’t speak with you between my lips, but I have nothing to say anyway. I moan in my throat as my tongue swirls around you and I savor every individual note in your taste. Your sweat, skin, and precum make my mouth water. The tug on my hair is gentle, just a warning… a reminder. We do this your way. My hair, lips, and tongue are the only parts of me graced with your touch. My eyes close when your thumb strokes my cheek, another signal. I inhale and swallow in preparation.
I know you, and you want to be my sole focus. I keep my eyes trained up, watching your face. Your grip on my hair isn’t gentle, but I like it. In contrast to your thrusts into my mouth, it’s downright tender. I say nothing, but at these times your normally stoic self becomes a babbling brook. In these moments, I’m your darling, your personal whore, your very good girl. Your words caress me like the most intimate strokes. As much as I want to close my eyes and savor your praise, I don’t dare. “Never look away” was one of my first rules.
I know you, and you hate titles. You’ve never been Master or Sir, but I say your name with the utmost respect. I long to moan it when you pull my locks with sudden urgency. You swell larger between my lips, and it’s almost a struggle to keep up with your fucking. I gag little when you hit my throat, but you keep going. You know I love your abandon. You love the involuntary tears that well in my eyes.
I know you, and you love to keep me guessing. Some evenings you’ll play and edge for hours until I’m sure my jaw and throat can’t take anymore. Other nights it’s quick in the slightest massage from my tongue has you spilling down my throat. But I can always tell when you’re about to come. Your face, your eyes always let me know.
You know me, and know that I am addicted to you. Everything about you enthralls. Day to day, I’m an opinionated smart-ass that can make you laugh. I can be in argumentative brat that makes you grit your teeth or roll your eyes. The arch of your brow lets me know that I’ll pay for my rebelliousness. But you know me, and understand that that’s partly why I act up.
I swallow every drop and relish your salty bitterness. You stroke my hair, help me up from my knees, and gently kiss the hollow of my throat and appreciation. No one but you has ever kissed me there. The first time you did, it was like an undiscovered nerve connected to my nipples and clit suddenly fired to life. The glint in those cerulean eyes says you know what your lips do to me. Wicked sapphire tells me that our night is only beginning.
You know that I couldn’t want anything more. You know that I treasure being your plaything. You know that your slightest wish is my urgent command. You know that your dominance centers me, calms me, completes me. Because you know me as I know you.