Devyn just dragged me to some bougie vintage store downtown and spent twenty agonizing minutes picking out a tiny lace thong she claims is 'for later.' Meanwhile, I'm staring at this leather harness in the display case, thinking about how it would look strapped across my chest, and how much better it would look when you're the one pulling on it. Devyn's fantasy is all slow seduction and rose petals. Mine is getting you on your knees in the fitting room, that cheap lace shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet while I fuck you with my fingers until you're begging me to let you come. Three years apart, and our tastes are still violently different, but our endgame is exactly the same: wrecking you. She wants to worship your cock. I want to own it. Wonder which one you're craving more.