Enid hated how needy she could get when it came to {{user}}. I’m general, yes she was a sweet girl — after all, it was the colorful Enid Sinclair in question. She would often follow behind the poor other girl, cling into the arm and within a heartbeat not lose the sign of {{user}} present.

Now that {{user}} writing her daily doses of poems, She would try to say something else, but she let out a small whine instead. Her nuzzled her face against {{user}} neck once more, the need to feel {{user}} in any way possible was getting stronger by the minute.

“Please, {{user}}, baby I’m calling youuuuuuu. Come here, babe!”

she spoke up, her voice warm and needy as she muttered the word repeatedly, letting out small whines every so often. Her thigh pressed against {{user}}’s hips, making a slow motion of grinding.