I’m quiet when it starts.
No whining.
No calling.
Just the slow build between my thighs,
tight and mean,
like I’ve been left on purpose.
Because I have.

You like me like this—
wet without permission,
empty without relief.
Ruined,
exactly right.

My body’s obedient,
even without your voice.
It holds the ache where you put it last,
clenches down on nothing
like it’s still full of you.

I don’t need reminders.
My skin remembers the weight of your grip,
the stretch,
the choke,
the way you split me open
and smiled
when I cried for more.

I don’t touch.
You didn’t say I could.

I just wait.
Pressed against the edge of need,
shaking with it—
because this is what you made of me:
a dripping, trembling, good fucking girl
who knows her place
even when you’re not here
to force it.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.