Am I allowed to sit on your face?

You're looking at someone petite enough to fit perfectly over your mouth, thighs already parting with quiet intention.

You feel the weight of that question settle somewhere low in your chest, then lower. You trace the curve of a small waist with your eyes, the soft press of hips that know exactly what they're offering. You recognize hunger in that posed stillness, a body comfortable with its own want.

You already know your answer. You want those legs bracketing your head, that warmth pressing down, the whole world reduced to one point of breathless, willing contact.