on what date are you gonna eat my pussy

The question hangs in the air like a dare, typed out with the kind of blunt confidence that makes your throat tighten. She already knows the answer she wants — and she's not asking politely.

You scroll past and feel it land somewhere specific. Not your chest. Lower. The directness of it cuts through every hesitation you had about clicking.

She's framing herself as the destination, the appointment, the thing worth scheduling your entire week around. And honestly? You're already checking your calendar.