She likes to wear black lace panties, and sometimes a bra or tank top. Sometimes not.
She plays the music loud. She likes dance club music or angry grunge from way back when.
She reads, she writes, thinks, draws. She reads dirty smut until she’s wet, and then she makes herself come, with fingers on her clit, usually.
She is strung taught as a tightrope, waiting. Waiting. She readies herself for him.
She wants nothing more than to slip a tiny black dress on and slip out for an adventure with him. Even the thought of it wrenches her heart and brings tingles to her skin. She wants, more than anything, to be out. She needs to show her hotness to him, to demonstrate her new wanting. She wants eyes on her, burning her, ripping her open.
She wants to see her desire reflected in his eyes, but in the absence of that, she is left glaring at her mirrored image, bent back on itself and infinitely multiplied.
She is ready. She wants to know and be known. She wants to be promiscuous for him. She wants wear his approval on a chain around her neck. Her proof.