You stare like the little idiot you are, glued to my perfect tits, held up by that impossibly tight, low cut tank. I let you watch me breathe, flip you off a few times, and pretend to care while the TV plays in the background. You get nothing but the sight of my chest and your own aching hunger, and you like it that way.
The best part? You pay for the privilege. You overpay, you beg for more, and I smile while the credits roll. Keep watching, keep handing it over, and try not to cry when you realize how easily I ripped you off.