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I haven’t emptied it in days. I’ve been filling it for you. Panty liners soaked with heat. Cotton pads smudged with sweat and spit. Used wipes, damp from between my thighs. Tissues crumpled after I’ve played. The scent rising from it? Raw. Tangy. Filthy. And I know you’d crawl inside if I let you. Head first. Tongue out. My bin isn’t just trash. It’s worship material. Tribute, and I might let you pick your favourite piece before I throw it away. Or maybe… I’ll make you beg for what I’ve already binned.
The water runs clear, but your mind? Filthy. I know what you'd do to stand in this puddle after me. Still warm. Still wet. Still mine.
It’s late. I’ve stripped everything off....except the scent. The lace is still damp from me. My feet are warm and salty from walking barefoot around the house. The bathroom bin is full; used wipes, tissues, wrappers… all the little pieces of me you beg to see. And as for you, my little pay pig I know your wallet gets hard this time of night. You want to serve. To sniff. To kneel. To be humiliated, teased, drained. But not just by anyone…
They’ve been there since last night. Dropped carelessly on the floor beside my bed; black lace, still warm from my body, clinging to the memory of skin you’ll never touch. I didn’t fold them. I didn’t hide them. I left them there, because I could. Because power doesn’t tidy up after itself. They’ve absorbed the heat of my sleep. The softness of my sheets. The scent of me. You’d fall to your knees just to press your face against that lace and beg. But begging doesn’t impress me. Tribute does. Still warm. Still mine. Who wants to prove they’re worthy?
Morning coffee
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