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The girl has a secret she's been keeping. Not the kind that weighs heavy like stones in pockets, but the kind that burns low and steady, like embers waiting for breath. She's tired of gentle men who treat her like glass, of fumbling connections that leave her wanting. What she craves... well, that's harder to admit.
She wants someone who reads her like a favorite book - knowing when to slowly turn pages and when to grip the spine until it creaks. Someone who understands that her tendency to live in her head isn't a flaw to fix, but a door to walk through. After all, that's where her deepest desires live, in that space between thought and breath, between "please" and "more."
Reader, shall we tell you what she thinks about in those quiet moments? When her phone buzzes with his message and her pulse quickens just knowing he's there, waiting? She imagines the sweet torture of anticipation - of being told exactly how to touch, when to stop, when she's allowed to come undone. Of a voice that knows how to command her scattered thoughts into perfect, trembling focus.
She dreams of someone who won't just take her control - they'll make her beg to give it up. Who understands that her submission isn't about being less, but about finally being allowed to be more. To be too much. To be exactly as intense and needy and desperate as she really is.
The irony doesn't escape her - that to feel truly free, she needs someone to hold her captive. That to stop making herself smaller, she needs someone strong enough to handle all of her. Someone who won't just let her fall apart, but will piece her back together, only to break her again.
But until then, she waits. And hopes. And burns.
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