You see me sitting in a cafe, sipping tea and doodling in my notebook. I’m by myself.
The sundress I’m wearing is a pastel pink one that stops halfway down my thigh, allowing the pale, unmarked skin of my inner thigh to be seen. My hair is down, falling over my shoulder in long, dark, locks. I’m a sweet, college freshman ripe for the picking.
Now the question is, when you’re looking at me, what exactly are you thinking about?
A lot of guys would probably want to walk over and introduce themselves, ask me out on a nice date, and maybe take me out to dinner before leading me back home to fuck me sweetly. But you? I don’t think so.
I think that when I get up to leave, you want to follow me. Maybe from a safe distance behind, or maybe you actually strike up a conversation. You say you’re headed in the same direction. But when we get to a less populated part of town, where the buildings are run down and most of the shops are closed, you grab my arm roughly, put your other hand over my mouth, and drag me into a back alley.
I think you want to rip off my new pink summer dress, buttons scattering on the pavement, as I try and claw my way free. I think you want to expose me, and humiliate me, and hit me–hard–as you push me up against the dirty brick wall of the alley. Scratch down my unmarked thighs and leave red gashes in the wake of your nails. I think you want to feel my tears against your skin, and my muffled screams against the palm of your hand.
I think you want to hurt me. I think you get off on it.
But, hey. You never know. Maybe you are a nice guy. Maybe you do just want to make pleasant conversation on the way home.
Call, me, and I guess we’ll see…
Just ask for Jessi at 844-935-6692.
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