I remember you once asking me coquettishly what I’d do with a ‘naughty girl’.
I think it’s time for me to tell you.
Just remember, though: you asked.
The course of conduct would depend upon the girl herself, upon the nature of her sin. I don’t believe in having pre-determined responses at my fingertips, to dip into whenever required. I’m no computer. I open myself to the whims of spontaneity, to the winds of inspiration. My actions will be tailored to the individual, to her inimitable transgressions.
Let’s take you, for instance. How long has it been since you began provoking me with images of your body, since you first used your sly words to stoke the flames of my lust? How much pleasure have you taken from the havoc you’ve wrought in my mind and my body? You’ve even confessed how you’ve fantasised about my fantasies, how you’ve closed your eyes and pictured me stroking myself as I read your missives and gaze hungrily at your photographs. Have you any idea of how wonderfully excruciating it is, hearing how you’ve imagined me fantasising about entering you as I lie between your welcoming thighs, as you ride me like the conceited Queen of Bitches that you are, as I grip your hips from behind and pull you savagely onto my thick, voracious length.
Surely you’d agree that you deserve some form of reprimand for so many degenerate, torturous acts?
Oui?
(more . . .)
