Imagine walking up. I am seated at a table. In public. Outside.
Now you are Bowing.
Transaction briskly Handled. Cash on the table.
And without a word,
Her eyes sear into your plasma.
You are sent off. With no hope of forgetting.
You crawl away.
Depleted. Rinsed.
Did anyone notice?
Do you even exist?
xo, Bardot.
If you've become addicted to My presence yet too fearful to approach, tribute by using Square Cash to email labardotsmith [at] gmail.com or visit My Fetish Shop.