Dear Diary,
The distance between my Sir and I only sharpens the edge of my craving, a sweet, tormenting ache that pulses with every beat of my heart. The miles dissolve under the weight of my desire, bringing me to where he is, needing to feel his control wrap around me like a silken cord.
I’m starving for him—for the sound of his voice that strokes the air, commanding and potent. I hunger to please him, to see that dark sparkle in his eyes as he watches me, poised on the brink of ecstasy. The anticipation of his permission, the sacred word that will let me tumble into oblivion, is almost too much to bear.
Every part of me is attuned to him, my senses strung tight as violin strings, waiting for his touch to pluck them. I imagine his gaze, heavy and hot, dissecting my every move, a voyeur to the desperate dance of my arousal. I’m climbing the walls in lust, each thought of him another step higher, each denied climax a sweet agony.
If he tells me to wait, I will—quivering, panting. But oh, how I burn to hear him say that I can come, to know that as I shudder and gasp, he is there, witnessing, partaking in the storm he’s conjured in me.
Let us find our release together, even worlds apart, tethered by voices, by sight, by the shared pulse of our pleasure. I’m here, always, his eager and willing submissive, waiting for that moment when he grants me the ecstasy of surrender under his watchful command.
Yours in relentless desire, Scarlet
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