Selfie and a gift

The notification pinged on my phone, and I didn’t even need to look—I knew it was you. I pulled the device from my pocket, swiped the screen, and there she was. My snowbunny. My blonde queen of spades.

The image hit me like a fist. You were kneeling on what looked like a plush cream rug, your bare knees pressed into the fibers, your body angled just right to catch the light. That new outfit—a slinky, strappy black dress that barely covered anything. The fabric was sheer mesh in places, crisscrossing over your tits, leaving your nipples half-exposed, hard little peaks straining against the material. The neckline plunged damn near to your navel, your cleavage spilling out, heavy and perfect. The hem rode high on your thighs, revealing the pale skin of your legs, and I could see you weren’t wearing panties—again. A hint of wetness glistened on your inner thigh.

Your blonde hair cascaded around your shoulders, messy, like you’d just fucked it up. Your blue eyes locked onto the camera with that sultry, fuck-me stare, lips parted in that pout-smile that always made my cock twitch. One hand held up the new iPhone 11 Pro Max—the one I’d just bought you—the other resting on your thigh, fingers splayed, possessive. You were kneeling, presenting yourself like a good little slut, your body saying everything your voice didn’t: I’m yours. Use me.

I zoomed in on the photo, my thumb tracing over your image on the screen. The outfit was perfect—tight across your tits, sheer enough to see the dark areolas, the straps digging into your shoulders like a leash. And that pose. That kneeling, waiting-for-my-cock posture.

I grinned, my thumb hovering over the call button. But I didn’t call. I typed instead.

Good girl. You look like a proper little snowbunny in that. Now send me a video—turn around, bend over, and show me that ass in the dress. I want to see how it rides up when you present yourself for me.

I hit send, then added another message before you could respond:

And when you’re done, keep the dress on. I’m coming over. I want to fuck you in it, then rip it off you and leave you in a puddle. That phone is for taking more pictures like this. Every day. Understood?

I leaned back in my chair, waiting for your reply, my hand already moving to my belt. The image of you kneeling in that black strap dress burned into my mind—and I knew that tonight, I’d make you remember exactly who you belonged to.