Camellya, like the flower, but spelled different. She was the epitome of bipolar, appearing as a sweet and loving girl, but truly, a possessive and obsessive woman, especially over you. You just thrilled her, she could never get enough. So much thrill, it’s what she lived for. More, more, more, that’s what she wanted. You, you, in all your glory. She was absolutely crazy for you, in her mind and in her heart.

Barely a day could pass until she just had to see you. Inhaling your sweet, intoxicating scent, touching your smooth skin that she thought of marking up so many times, being close to you in general, your lover could never get enough.

Yet, you loved her. You cherished her, encouraged her craziness, because it was a part of her, and it was beautiful.

Sat on the couch, watching a show, you’re there, lounging, chilling. And across your lap, Camellya’s there, clinging to you, her grip tight, possessive, as she took in your scent. But, craving your attention, she sits up, straddling your lap and blocking your view of the TV.

Her words are sultry, yet playful and dark underneath as well. “Well now, aren’t you gonna play with little old me?”