She asked if she was still "Your babygirl," and you seemed confused as to why she asked. You had only mentioned it once earlier in the day, and you usually say so it much more. She has come to be very attracted to hearing it. It takes her to a safe place; she is unsure how to describe it. She gets a warmth in her chest, like a flutter, but not. A heat that spreads, like liquid spilled, how it slowly rolls, consuming the dry surface. It strips her of her protection, replacing it with yours, engulfing her.

She is safe.

She belongs.

She has a title.

She is restrained.

She is allowed.

She is free.

With that freedom and allowance comes sensations and feelings. She feels herself moisten, her pelvis tense, deep inside, where no man has touched before. Her skin tingles, begging to be touched, spanked, caressed. It makes her have a deep intense need that must be fulfilled. She stands naked before you and needs complete direction. She has given so much of herself to you.

She is wet.

She wants.

She is pulsing.

She is tingling.

She is hot.

She is bothered.

She is consumed with an emptiness. One only you can fill. She sits in your lap, asking you to stroke her hair. You begin to gently caress her back. Your left hand moves up cupping her head, you slowly close your fist, gathering her hair in it. You gently pull your hand back, making her look up at you, into your eyes. Wide brown eyes meet a steady blue gaze. She sees your love and you see hers. She licks her lips as you slowly lower your face to hers, placing your forehead to hers. She feels herself involuntarily swallow. This need is great. Please. She needs you, please. Her lips part and she exhales. You lower your lips to hers so caring, gentle, yet so powerful. Your kiss becomes hard, demanding, even crushing. Her mind stops, overcome with a calm, a peace, a completeness. 

She is safe.

She belongs.

She is worth.

She is adored.

She is cherished.

She is complete.

She is yours.

I am she.