I Like It When He Watches

I’ve always loved how he looks at me. Not just a casual glance… no. The kind that undresses me without a single touch.

That night, I told him not to move. I wanted him to watch.
The lights were low, the air heavy with the scent of my vanilla oil. I stood in front of the mirror, wearing nothing but black lace. My skin shimmered against the soft glow, and I could feel his eyes tracing every inch of me.

I dragged my fingers slowly down my neck… over my breasts… and lower—until I heard him exhale sharply. That sound lit something wild inside me.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered. “Just look.”

Every movement became a performance, and he was my only audience. My back arched, my breath quickened, and I felt power in the way he trembled without a single touch. When he finally couldn’t hold it anymore and grabbed me from behind, it wasn’t gentle—it was hungry.

His hands explored everything.
My moans filled the room.
And the mirror—oh, the mirror—caught every second of it.

That’s the thing about me… I don’t just like sex.
I like the build-up, the power, the tease. I like knowing he’s losing control while I’m just getting started.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

✍️ "Weak in the Knees"

 He had me against the wall before I could say his name — fingers digging into my hips like he’d paid for the right to bruise me. He kissed me like he was angry, tongue sliding against mine until I gasped — that sound he loved, the one that made his grip tighten. By the time he slid his hand between my thighs, my knees were gone — soft, trembling, useless. I whispered don’t stop but I didn’t need to. He wasn’t going anywhere. He knelt right there, lips on my inner thigh, mouth making promises my body already believed. And when his tongue finally found me — hot, slow, devastating — my back hit the wall and I heard him laugh into my skin. “Weak in the knees for me, baby?” All I could do was moan — and give him everything he’d come for.
Read more

✍️ Somebody’s Shoulder Is About to Give Up

 Somebody’s shoulder is tired. Not from lifting weights — but from carrying everyone else’s silence. She smiles like she’s fine, but she’s tired of being the strong one. The listener. The fixer. The one who holds everyone together — even while she’s falling apart. She answers texts when she’s the one who needs comfort. She claps for others even when no one claps for her. She gives. She bends. But she’s starting to break. You’d never notice. Because she hides it like a pro. But if you look closely, her eyes say: “I need someone to carry me now.” Somebody’s shoulder is about to give up. And the saddest part? She’ll still ask you if you’re okay — while she's quietly drowning.
Read more

I get jealous over someone who isn’t even mine.

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Feeling jealous over someone who hasn’t promised me anything. Someone who owes me nothing. Someone who might not even like me back the way I like them. But here I am — getting irritated when I see their name pop up with someone else, getting quiet when they don’t text back on time, overthinking when they post something that doesn’t include me. I act unbothered. I pretend I’m cool. I respond with “lol” and emojis like my heart isn’t acting stupid. But inside? I’m burning. Not because they’re mine but because I wish they were. I know it’s foolish. I know I have no right. But feelings don’t wait for permission. They attach themselves quietly, softly, and then violently — especially when you try to ignore them. Jealousy without entitlement is the worst kind. Because you suffer silently, pretending you don’t care, while hoping one day they’ll choose you so you can finally stop lying to yourself.
Read more