I crave the sound of whimpering, of sharp gasps and well-used flesh.
I want to leave welts. Bruised wrists. Rope burns.
The civility, so carefully crafted, is paper thin. I can see the puncture marks where teeth have already tasted the warm air just on the other side.
I want you bent over my desk, hands bound behind you, and fucked hard enough that your feet have to scrabble for purchase as I take you.
Nice.