An Ode To What's in the Bottom Drawer

By

The Drawer That Knows Me

My fingers hover above the keys, trembling with anticipation.

A slow, delicious warmth unfurls between my thighs, pulsing beneath the soft cotton that barely conceals my desire.

The drawer calls to me—silent, patient, and full of promise.

But I resist. For now.

If I finish this piece, the reward will be richer, more decadent. Delayed gratification is its own kind of foreplay.

I can almost feel her—cool, smooth, and polished—pressing against my skin.

I lick my lips, imagining the moment she’ll slide across my stomach, firm and familiar, ready to fill me with pleasure.

She’s been mine for years, tucked away in that drawer like a secret lover waiting for her cue.

She knows my rhythms. My cravings. My surrender.

And tonight, she’ll deliver again.

The pulse between my legs grows louder, more insistent.

I stop typing.

Rational thought dissolves.

The drawer wins.

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