Hit the gavel with all your strength, my judge.

You're one of the older men who waits for your little girl at the end of every body class... Artistic gymnastics, they call it. I want to be the best, but I wonder how that girl almost always comes in first place. She's not pretty, not that beauty is a requirement... But she's also not skinny enough for the physics of your art to be dazzled. It's not just the lack of curves, a whore's body. I see her mistakes. And I try to be a temperate person. I'm always overthinking so as to never take risks that tarnish my image in front of the public and those who can raise my position like you, the judge in the stands. It's not bad that I don't occupy any of the first three places. I don't like being surrounded by people.
The photos; The videos and the interviews. I've never done it, but I know they would make me uncomfortable...
I want to come in first place. What do I do? Would it be wise to do the same as her? Wouldn't I regret walking up that ladder in exchange for more? What would I get from you? A lesson or a regret? It's common sense that men sexually harass little girls with little knowledge of the world.
I'm climbing these steps after class and... Maybe I'm confused, maybe I like attention and just need someone in front of me, who opens the curtains for the audience to show their rare jewel... And closes them quickly. I've always been suspicious of what goes on behind the curtains, before the show, for those who are part of your intimate. However, even with my body on display, even with me dressed in those transparent black tights, without a skirt and only with a flowery coat to cover a little of my provocation - My flower; My butt and sometimes, with the coat's zipper slightly open, so you can see my small breasts.
In my head a girl without panties and a bra could be good rewards for when I flexed in the most attractive positions of your art.
You didn't do anything.
You aren't gay because upside down, I could see how your cock dripped hard with lust.
You were always firm in your touch, you never crossed the line.
You taught, not molested.
You put me in the lead role, through beautiful art you made me blossom not only for the audience, but for you. You opened and closed the curtains according to my limits and, I'm not sure if that was your purpose, but since you are a cautious and intelligent man enough to know that you could have done all that and not received anything.
For this carnality, everything depended on me and, that night, I was happy to give my honey and receive each and every sting of knowledge coming from you.
We were honeyed, completely cumming with consent... And I realized that first place was never the point of arrival, only my starting point.
I don't want to be just a sprout, I want to sprout an entire garden in front of your house, suffocate you with my smell, dethrone your family, be your queen, transform your life.
Just breathe. Pant. Moan for me. Gasp in disgust for anyone else.
I stay in first place
And I will bend over on all fours when that theater is closed.
Architecture that echoes the proof of the devotion you feel for me.
It is not just passion. You love how I think, how I behave and I, the same of you, my judge.
Hit the gavel with all your strength. I am the vitality that you use for you to continue emerging.