Girl on the Net

I did my hair nicely today. I wanted you to love the way it looks so much you’d grab a fistful and yank my head in for a biting kiss. I feel pretty today, I made myself pretty today. And I only did it because I want you to fuck me up.

I wore this floaty blouse for the pattern of the buttons. If I open the first three – not two, not four, but three – you’ll see just enough of my tits that you’ll wonder if the third button being undone is an accident. It must be, surely? Because this is just the right side of indecent.

I selected a bra that would give the perfect squish: cleavage that draws your attention, with depth you want to lean into. Oh and by the way, the only reason I wear this necklace (or any necklace at all, come to think of it) is to point your gaze in exactly the right direction.

I wore my clothes this way in the hope that you’ll reach a hand across the table in the pub, put a finger down the warm crease between my tits and then tug the open shirt – dragging me closer so you can whisper into my ear: you’re such a fucking slut, do you know that?

I wore these jeans because the last time I had them on you smacked my arse in the kitchen so loudly it reverberated through the walls of the entire flat. It rattled my teeth. Vibrated in my cunt. Echoed in the depths of my eager, pervert soul.

I shaved my legs so I could feel your skin in perfect definition when I wrap them round your waist as you slam in your dick.

I painted my nails because I want you to spit on my fingertips. Tell me ‘go on, good girl, show me what you can do’ as you order me to pleasure myself for you. I painted them black because you once told me that the contrast of pale-skin-black-nails is aesthetically pleasing when I squeeze your shaft tightly as you fuck upwards into my grip.

I only wore these flimsy knickers so that you’d tear them off quickly.

I know some people dress nice for themselves, and sometimes I do too. But today I did not dress for self-esteem: I dressed up so you can tear me the fuck down.

Rip away, please. Start with my blouse. Yank it open and pop the buttons and show me how cheap my clothes are… how cheap I am.

I feel pretty today, fuck me up.

I put on this lipstick so you’d smear it with your cock. This mascara so it would run when I choke so hard that my eyes water. I wore this foundation so the flush of fresh fucking would glow through nice and bright as each layer sweats off. This kohl? I put it on so my wet eyes are framed, looking up at you eagerly as you beat viciously at yourself and stare back into the depths of them. The eyeliner gives you something to aim for when you’re hunting down a target you can paint with the first squirts of spunk.

I made myself pretty today, please ruin my efforts. Trash my achievement.

I wore this blouse so you’d look at my tits, these jeans because I’m after an arse grab. Every single scrap of make-up is chosen because I want it to smear. From the tips of my freshly-varnished toenails (please jizz on my feet) to the neat curls of my frizz-free hair (grab handfuls), each element has been carefully selected to tempt you into doing something with it.

Don’t look at me like a picture in a gallery, or respect me like I’ve done this for your love. I feel pretty today, fuck me up.

I didn’t dress nicely to earn your respect, but to make your disdain feel more fun. So treat me like a rage room: fuck me up.

I chose this make-up because I want you to smear it. Selected this necklace cos I want you to look at my tits.

I picked out these jeans because I know exactly how your hand will feel when you land a solid smack in the centre of one of my buttocks.

I feel pretty today, and not by accident. I wore these fucking fuck-me boots cos I want you to fucking fuck me.