Uh oh.. You’re in *that* mood again. The one where you want to just turn your brain off and let me control you. Your cock. Your inhales. I'm in shiny red heels. Thigh highs. Legs that don't fucking quit. And every time I cross them -every slow, deliberate, calculated cross - you sniff, and you stroke. Stimulus. Response. No thought in between. Just obedience. You're going to pump. You're going to edge. You're going to get so fucking desperate and leaky and *ruined* by the rhythm I set for you that your cock starts responding to the movement of my legs like a dog salivating at a bell. And I'm going to toy with you - crossing, uncrossing, holding, teasing, watching you twitch and throb and lose your fucking composure.. By the end of this, you won't be able to see a woman cross her legs without your cock jumping. In a meeting. At a restaurant. Sitting across from her. It won't matter. You'll feel that pulse, that ache, that Pavlovian gut-punch - and you'll think of me.