I just had the most exquisite massage from a man whose hands seemed to know every knot of tension in my body. He worked my muscles with such deliberate, patient pressure that by the end, I was a puddle on the table. When he asked if I wanted a 'happy ending,' I laughed and told him I preferred to take my own pleasure on my own terms. The truth? I spent the next hour sprawled naked on my silk sheets, fingers tracing lazy circles around my clit, thinking about how much better it feels when I make someone watch me come without being allowed to touch. There’s a specific kind of power in that—being completely exposed yet utterly in control. The memory of a certain someone’s strained expression the last time I made them kneel at the foot of my bed while I fucked myself with a vibrator… it’s almost enough to make me call them over right now. Almost. (Mood: languid)