Us women have responsibilities.

From the moment I wake, I exist for men to use me as they please.

There’s something intoxicating about knowing my body is not accidental, it’s maintained, shaped, honed. I run my hands slowly over my stomach, down my hips, feeling the firmness I’ve worked for. Tight. Smooth. Responsive.

Exactly how men want it to be.

I like the discipline of it. The way I hold myself straight, shoulders back, chest lifted. The way I choose lace of cotton, silk instead of simple. No one sees it at first, that’s the secret. Beneath ordinary clothes, I’m already prepared. Already presenting my tits, pussy and ass.

I moisturise slowly, deliberately, fingers dragging over my thighs, my waist, the curve of my back. I keep my skin soft. I keep myself groomed. I make sure there is nothing careless about me, so it feels good when men take hold of me.

When a man’s eyes linger, I feel it, that subtle shift in the air. That moment where I know he’s imagining. Assessing. Wanting. Choosing me, to fuck and use.

It isn’t desperation. It’s intention. I know what effect I create. I know the way fabric clings when I move, the way my hips sway just slightly more than necessary. I am aware of every inch of myself, how it looks, how it feels, how it might be taken in.

There’s a thrill in being ready. In knowing that if someone stepped close, if a hand settled at my waist, I would already be softened, already pliant, already warm.

I don’t drift through the world unaware.

I move through it knowing that I am watched. Desired. Considered.

And when that hunger flickers across someone’s face — when I see the restraint tighten in their jaw — I feel the quiet pulse of satisfaction low in my body.

I made myself this way.

Not passive.

Prepared.

Needy.