That's my thing. If our wants align, I know your needs are trapped inside you, like a constant pressure hopeless for releasing. I want to know you, have you become enamored of me, and me of you. I want you to ache to share your lust knowing we've already discussed it a thousand times, but letting me lead you over the threshold from want to reality. I want you to ache outside our home, wear the mask of civility, throbbing to release your needs on me. I want to be a caring partner, remain the good person that I am, but with your needs firmly in hand and stroked into an uncontrolled flame that warms me.

So yeah. How about some more mundane details of yours truly.

I came home last night late, because my home was empty and I'm the boss, so why not work late. I was fully spent, dragged through the door, microwaved two corn dogs and poured a healthy glass of port. I sent a picture to a foodie discord my friends frequent, as a tongue in cheek response to the full Vietnamese spread someone posted earlier. A long hot shower. Tv on the couch, swirling another glass of port. Happy in what I accomplished, but no one in my arms.

My mind wanders about you being here. Coming home much earlier because my home isn't empty. You meeting me at the door or when you hear me coming in, an outfit you enjoy me staring at, a kiss and being pulled in hard to me, reveling in the stink of a man that had a full day. I see you looking shy and saying I told you to remind me that you belonged to me, and that you were to turn around seductively to show me the body I could do anything to. I tell you to start me a shower, undressing casually while I catch up with you, chitchat, but I really listen and ask questions, remember small details. You shriek as I lift you up and carry you into the shower. I kiss you and tell you to get out of those wet clothes with a playful tone of scolding. My hands have spent hours learning you, and quickly your breath is getting ahead of you as they play. The kisses make you ache for the next, then I sink down, and I tell you to hold still. The licking and the hot water and my hand make your eyes roll back, and you begin to make primal sounds. You lose track of the world and don't know when the fucking begins, hard, pressing you against the wall. But it continues until I tell you to dry off with me. Ragged breath as you try to act normal to my calm control. We wear silk on the couch, and you snuggle against me, telling me about your day, as you wait. Good girls are kept forever. They can tell Master/Daddy/Sir any fantasy and still be accepted, and always have a place by his side. A good girl can pretend to be one thing outside the home, and be another thing she's afraid of, but Sir controls, at home. You anxiously await the chance to drain me and be called a Good Girl.

My friends enjoyed the image of the chienne d'maiz, and are now talking yak butters and yogurts. It beats a boring life, by far. Would love some accompaniment.