There’s something about the idea of being inspected that makes me squirm in that distressing, uncomfortable, lovely, perfect way.
I’ve never had one, but I’ve been turned on by every inspection I’ve read about.
The thought of laying perfectly still in complete quiet while someone examines every part of you is an arousing mix of clinical and objectifying that I really couldn’t deny the appeal of if I tried.
What would you be looking for? What would you inspect? When are you just going to stop torturing me and use me already?
I’d feel like an object. I’d have trouble sitting so still and so quietly while someone looked at me so closely, making me feel so uncomfortable.
Pointing out how wet it made me while I tried my hardest to prove the way you were treating me did anything but.
