It’s like an itch that has to be scratched. Days, weeks, months, even, can go by without an adoring human looking up at me from on their knees waiting on my every moment.
But in these between-times, my thoughts swirl with possibility. The thought of pulling on my leather vest and slipping into some fishnets and heels makes my breath shallow. Dressing up and primping and posing and pleasing my urges with reckless abandon makes me bite my lips and furrow my eyebrows and lean into the potential. And stroking my thighs with my finger tips, moving my hips into the straps of my femme cock, and looking over one willingly lying before me and offering me everything… unnfff.
It’s like my fantasies run wild without a specific target. In spaces where it’s safe to do so, I imagine the little queer thing bent over the chair in front of me. I picture another femme looking to me for direction. I salivate with the imagined whine coming from the back of the throat of a submissive boy appreciating my power and presence.
Especially incarnate– with submissive things in the flesh giving me the eyes that acknowledge all that I am and all that I can be– I stand up straighter. I make eye contact, almost challenging– and raise my eyebrow and smirk knowingly. If I chose to engage this play thing offering themselves in a dance of give and Take, I know that I’d blow their world away.
It’s just… even in the midst of the pulse of wanting… there lies memory… and he clouds my vision and pauses my engaging. It’s still too soon. Closer now, to the tipping point of passion… but still too soon to call another My Own.
How long, O Lord?