07.

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at fifteen, i am nothing like how i used to be. mom jokes about how much of a woman i am, she often jokes about selling me off to a young, rich man who can treat me like a princess and won't leave me like our father did. if that man is you, i'm okay with it.

you're sat on my bed, leaning on your elbows, watching me sway in my navy dress you got me for my thirteenth birthday. i've grown since then, it now reaches a little past my thighs and my breasts suffocate in it. but i look nice.

i want you drowning in jealousy but it hardly phases you. don't you care about me? am i simply nothing to you? but when i dress in heels, you groan, order me to take them off. i listen because i've never heard that frustrated tone from you before.

it's nice. i like it.

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