My Love,
I love, worship, and adore you with all my heart and soul.
I love working and slaving for you. I am happy to work hard, to work long hours so you do not need to work at all. My paychecks are depositing directly into your account. It is not a joint account. Every penny goes to you, and then you give me an allowance. Performance based. I make money. You spend it. Country club memberships, private lessons, exotic vacations, designer clothes. The best. Only the best.
I love cleaning up after you. I love that you leave your soiled panties on the floor for me. A gift. A treasure. I lie on the floor and bury my nose in your panties, inhaling deeply. I run my tongue on the cotton crotch searching for every trace, every taste, of your days, your nights, your lovers.
I love watching men watching you. It fills me with pride. I watch their eyes dip down your blouse, lighting up as they gaze upon your breasts. I watch their heads turn as you walk by. I love your power over them. I love your power over me.
I love the instep of your foot, the very last extremity of your perfect body that you are willing to share with one so unworthy as myself. You honor me by allowing me to be your footstool, to lie at your feet, allowing me to be the pedestal upon which rests your ideal feminine form.
I love to buff and rub your heel and toes, to dissolve any trace of hardness in your skin and restore its pink softness. The soft crevasses nestled between each toe are one of many secret delights that the heavenly treasure of your body holds for me, a perfect fit for the tip of my tongue. I bathe your toes with my tongue. I am your kitten, licking, cleaning, purring. And you are so tolerant of me, allowing me to grovel and squirm.
I must bother you, I know I must. And yet you are able to ignore me completely as though I don’t exist, as you read your book, watch TV, talk to lovers on the phone. I will try to remain still, to be a good
footrest, not to distract you with my own pursuit of pleasure at your expense. For I know, my only real satisfaction comes from your contentment and my only reason for existence, your happiness.
I love painting your toenails. I lie on my tummy on the floor concentrating fully on dipping the little brush in the red enamel. Making sure that no stray strand blemishes the perfect skin of your toe. I lightly blow on your toes to dry them, before adding a second coat. You say not a word. I feel invisible.
I love preparing your bath. Making you ready for your lovers. The tub, the room, I carefully scrub for hours. Hard work, scouring with a toothbrush. Rinsing, scouring again, rinsing, until my hands turn from pink to red and my arms and back pound with pain. I plan carefully. The water and air temperature must be just right. The bath oils perfectly matched with scents and bubbles. I light candles. Soft music. Warm a cozy, fluffy towel. I want to give you perfect pleasure. No demands. Unconditional love. You will be completely relaxed and ready, ready to be swept into the strong masculine arms of your choice of man.
I love helping you get dressed. You let me play in your undies drawer. I love picking out some little soft and silky wisp of panty to slip on your body. I warm it with my breath, feel its silkiness on my face. I kneel at your feet. Your legs are crossed. I hold out your panties. You let me slip them over your feet, your legs come uncrossed, I slip them up your ankles, trying not to let you know that I am trying so hard to look between your legs as I work the panties up to your knees. You look at me and smirk. I beg you with my eyes. You put your hand on my head, and rise. My moment of exaltation. On my knees, my face inches from your nude, perfectly completely shaved mons veneris. My mouth waters. My eyes tear. I want to suckle but know now is not the time.
Slowly I love to work your panties up your thighs, savoring every moment, every texture, your smell, the perfume, my mouth breathing on your mons, my breath like dew on your skin. I cover your most private, total nudity with the translucent wisp of panty as my fingers guide the panties up your hips. I release the panties, and allow my fingers to trace your perfect derriere, but not daring to squeeze. Still on my knees, drinking in the sight of your beauty now captured in panties, panties that reveal so much.
Not a trace of hair, pure, pristine. I worship your feminine sanctum sanctorum, your total power and control over me. I am helpless in your spell.
I love when you sit at your vanity. Sitting pretty in your panties, a negligee on your shoulders. I blow dry your hair. Brushing, teasing. Your eyes are closed, you are soaking in the hot air streaming through your scalp, sensual, every pore of your body, a pleasure center. I marvel at the blonde tresses, the silkiness, the perfection. Stolen glimpses of your perfect body, while I fluff the cascade of tresses.
I love to apply your make up. To enhance your exquisite natural beauty and drive your lovers wild with desire. I start on your eyes. Applying liner to your closed lids, you show your complete trust in me. I brush, light blue to pick up the cruel blue of your eyes. I blend. When you open your eyes, they smoke. You look at yourself in the mirror. You nod. Approval. I beam with pride. You like to apply your own lipstick. I watch transfixed as you complete your toilet.
I love when you spray perfume on your neck, another spray on your tummy. Next to you on my knees, I close my eyes, the better to absorb the heady aroma.
I love to bring your garter belt and attach it around your waist. I bring your stockings. I love carefully rolling each stocking. I love kneeling at your feet, placing the rolled stocking at your toes, and slowly, slowly rolling the silky nylon over each foot, calf, and up your thigh, where I secure them with a garter.
I love and adore your bottom. If you would let me, I would have you stand that I might kneel behind you. I dare not ask. But I would marvel at your roundness, your perfect plumpness accentuated by your smooth, muscled legs and waist. I would plunge my nose, my tongue as deep as I could into the nether of you. I dream of your bottom. My favorite fantasy. My hidden desire.
I love your breasts. You do not need a bra, though sometimes you wear one just to accentuate the swell of your melons. Your breasts are the best money can buy. They are magnificent. My mouth waters at the sight of them. I love them naked and free. I love them bursting forth from a too-small string bikini top. I love when you lean forward in a low-cut blouse, and I see them swell and beckon. Your breasts make me want to shrink to be your Tom Thumb. A naked, little mouse-sized pet, I would live nestled between your breasts, always feeling your warmth against my skin. I would gladly suffocate enjoying your flesh with my last breath.
I love watching you flirt. I love you, the seductress. I love watching the men you choose. I love watching you lasso the stallion. I watch as the stallion comes, panting and pawing at your soft, pliable, femininity. All-man, all-woman, I can only watch, not fully man myself, I watch the real man possess you, the full woman. I hide myself, seeking invisibility, watching you surrender yourself to the muscle of masculine power. I am your little boy. I have my little boy excitement. Peeking at mommy. Watching the big
daddies come and take you.
I love you alone and exhausted on a rumpled bed. Your body reddened with his roughness, pushed to its limit. I love the love bites, the residue of rough sex. You are splayed. Dirty. Finished. In the twilight, I creep up onto the bed, I carefully move the sheets, silently uncover you. I love you abased. I love seeking the faint echoes of your sweet smells, now plastered with ugly odors of tobacco, alcohol, him. My senses are sharpened, I seek his smell, the sight of his ravages, the taste of his spunk. I love this, the one time, weakened, you let me snuggle between your legs. I love your low, guttural moan as I love you with my tongue, reaching my final fulfillment, your slave, your servant.
Proudly and lovingly signed,
Willing Wimp
