I'm not your lover. I'm your toy.
I sit in my toy box until you wish to take me out. Thinking of you. Craving you. Touching myself thinking of you. Of the smell and taste of your skin. Of the one time you rubbed your vulva on my face for a moment, your wiry hairs and your warm softness tickling me and making me yours. I always shudder when I think of you. We might be switches, but we're not equal. Even when I'm your domme, and I have you in a deep, obedient trance... I'm still your toy. You picked me out of my toy box, and are playing your favorite game with me. Your game of submission.
No matter my power over you, there are things I can never get from you. Even when I have the most control over you, I have no control over our relationship. Over when we meet. Over when you write me. So... why am I orgasming thinking of this?
I crave you so much. Being your toy makes me crave and adore you. It elevates the taste of your skin to a fine drug that takes my mind away. I just came thinking of making out with your chin. Tears of desire and joy running down my face, slobbering over a non-erogenous part of your beautiful, feminine body, while you lift your face in pride. This is us.
I love this. I adore this. I adore being your toy.
I'm thinking of your armpits now. And your belly, your bellybutton. Of the wonderfully soft, feminine hairs on your shapely butt, and the enchanting scents under your skirt when you let me kiss and worship you there.
I think I have an image in my head what it might have been like in the past... You, a married lady... and me, a single, rebellious, intellectual woman, maybe an artist or a researcher, scorned by society, and craving to melt at your touch. An unequal connection - you have societal duties, and an image to uphold. I have none.
So of course I'm your toy.