You must know. You must.

You must know by now just how my body craves you, just how maddening and intense my hunger for you.

I hear your voice, my gaze falls upon your face and your body, and my cunt betrays me each and every time, releasing the flood with the sound of your sigh, with your slightest touch, with the revelation of your cravings, with your deep and devastating kiss.

You don’t believe me?

Inch up my skirt. Spread wide my legs. Trail your hands up the trembling softness of my thighs. Bury your fingers inside.

Tell me, can you feel my heat? Can you feel the molten desire soaked into the ebony lace? Can you feel the wetness as you slide your thumb along the fine filigree from my mons to my cleft, as you slowly ease the fused fabric from my obscenely smooth and scarlet flesh to taunt me, to stroke my pouting lips, to tease the throbbing ache of my clitoris?

Can you feel it? Can you feel me? Can feel and smell my need?

Bring your hand to your nose, to your lips. Lick your fingers. Inhale the scent.

How do I taste? Am I just as heady, just as blistering, just as sweet as I was the other day when I came hotly in your mouth, moaning and writhing and pleading for your cock, for you to fuck me, as you fed off the succulence of my tight little cunt like a starved and merciless beast?

How do I taste? Do I taste like your wanton lover in heat? Like your perfect submissive? Like your sublime cock whore? Do I taste like I’m yours?

You must know. You must.

And if you still doubt me, all you need do is glide your hard, thick, dripping disbelief along every curve of my naked and ravenous body for the proof.