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... e she enjoys making me suffer.

Like she’s taking pleasure in my desperation.

I hate it.

I love it.

I need more.

My hips move without thinking, pressing against her hand, against her touch, seeking any kind of relief from the unbearable tension winding inside me.

I don’t care how desperate I sound when I whisper—

> "Please..."

My pride is long gone, drowned out by the sensation of her teasing, of her dragging this out on purpose. ...

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