Your masturbation face. That's what I came to see. The pinched, drooling, half-blinking little portrait you make when you think you're alone with it — but I'm right here now, and tonight I own the pace too. Slow down. Slower than that. One full minute between strokes, and if your wrist twitches early I start the count over. The lingerie I'm in isn't here to comfort you, it's a reminder of every inch you'll never get to touch. All you can do is edge for me. Pull back. Edge again, deeper this time, until your thighs start shaking. Now ruin it. Hand off. Don't touch the mess — it's mine. Your cum doesn't count as pleasure. It counts as proof.
