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Perceval
π»πππππππ ππ π―ππππππππ β₯
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2018
- Location
- α΄Ιͺα΄ α΄ Κα΄-α΄α΄Κα΄Κ
Every time I order, it feels like a twisted little ritual, one I can't stop. I know it's probably pathetic, but I don't care. I've been living in this mess for so long, the boxes stacked up against the windows like some kind of makeshift fort, the stains on the mattress marking how many nights I've spent on it without moving. I don't even know why I bother cleaning anymore. What's the point? Nothing changes. Nothing, but the fleeting moments when you show up at my door.
I make sure to get everything just right. The lights are off, the room smells like stale food and too many empty soda cans. However, I've learned to embrace it. I don't want anything else in this world besides that knock on my door, hearing your voice on the other side, your hand on that greasy pizza box I ordered. My fingers curl around my phone in anticipation.
God, you probably hate delivering here. It's a mess. I know I must look like some sad case, hiding from the world, a girl who can't even take care of herself, but I can't help the way I feel when I see your face for those few seconds. I wonder if you even notice. You always seem so clean, so put together, a glimpse of something I could never be. Maybe I want that. Maybe I want you.
Each time you come, I sit at the door, trying to look like I'm not waiting. Pretending I'm fine. But I can't help but stare through the crack when I hear your footsteps approaching. I know the sound of them. The click of your shoes against the concrete floor, that familiar shuffle. The way you pause before knocking, like you know I'm on the other side, just waiting for you.
You don't know it, but when I answer the door, I can't look you in the eye. I'm just staring at the box, hoping, hoping that this time maybe you'll stay. Maybe this time, you'll look past the mess, past my pale skin, the greasy hair, the slovenly clothes. Maybe you'll see me the way I see you.
I don't expect much, though. I'm just a weird girl in a dark room. But in my fantasies, I imagine inviting you in, watching your face as you hesitate at the threshold. Maybe you'd smile and step across it, ignoring the smell and the clutter, just to sit with me. Just to talk, or maybe something more.
I've ordered again. It's not just for the pizza this time. It's for you. Every time you arrive, I can't help but think. I can almost see it in your eyes, the way you're standing there, holding the pizza box like it's the only thing grounding you. I know you're thinking about how you wants me to take charge. You wants me to see you, really see you, beyond the uniform, beyond the pizza. You're waiting for me to take that first step, to reach out and pull you inside. You're hoping I'll close the door behind you, shutting out the world, and take you into the mess of my life, my chaos, my vulnerability.
Maybe you're hoping I'll show you how much I want this, how much I want you. I know you want me to pull you in, to take control, to close the distance between us and take you into my world, even if it's messy and imperfect.
Just come inside already and lay down on my stained mattress. I desperately need your glossy lips wrapped around my fat, greasy balls.
(Me being a Futa is open for discussion.)
I make sure to get everything just right. The lights are off, the room smells like stale food and too many empty soda cans. However, I've learned to embrace it. I don't want anything else in this world besides that knock on my door, hearing your voice on the other side, your hand on that greasy pizza box I ordered. My fingers curl around my phone in anticipation.
God, you probably hate delivering here. It's a mess. I know I must look like some sad case, hiding from the world, a girl who can't even take care of herself, but I can't help the way I feel when I see your face for those few seconds. I wonder if you even notice. You always seem so clean, so put together, a glimpse of something I could never be. Maybe I want that. Maybe I want you.
Each time you come, I sit at the door, trying to look like I'm not waiting. Pretending I'm fine. But I can't help but stare through the crack when I hear your footsteps approaching. I know the sound of them. The click of your shoes against the concrete floor, that familiar shuffle. The way you pause before knocking, like you know I'm on the other side, just waiting for you.
You don't know it, but when I answer the door, I can't look you in the eye. I'm just staring at the box, hoping, hoping that this time maybe you'll stay. Maybe this time, you'll look past the mess, past my pale skin, the greasy hair, the slovenly clothes. Maybe you'll see me the way I see you.
I don't expect much, though. I'm just a weird girl in a dark room. But in my fantasies, I imagine inviting you in, watching your face as you hesitate at the threshold. Maybe you'd smile and step across it, ignoring the smell and the clutter, just to sit with me. Just to talk, or maybe something more.
I've ordered again. It's not just for the pizza this time. It's for you. Every time you arrive, I can't help but think. I can almost see it in your eyes, the way you're standing there, holding the pizza box like it's the only thing grounding you. I know you're thinking about how you wants me to take charge. You wants me to see you, really see you, beyond the uniform, beyond the pizza. You're waiting for me to take that first step, to reach out and pull you inside. You're hoping I'll close the door behind you, shutting out the world, and take you into the mess of my life, my chaos, my vulnerability.
Maybe you're hoping I'll show you how much I want this, how much I want you. I know you want me to pull you in, to take control, to close the distance between us and take you into my world, even if it's messy and imperfect.
Just come inside already and lay down on my stained mattress. I desperately need your glossy lips wrapped around my fat, greasy balls.
(Me being a Futa is open for discussion.)
