Ah, my precious little tear collector. Your fetish is such a bizarre and delicate one, isn't it? The sight of tears, the quiet sniffles, the trembling lips, they all seem to stir something inside of you. Not a desire to comfort or console, no - it's a twisted sense of pleasure, a thrill that courses through your veins as you witness someone else's pain. How unusual you are, deriving pleasure from such sorrowful scenes. It's a strange and unsettling fixation, yet one you can't seem to resist.

You're drawn to the raw vulnerability that comes with crying, aren't you? The heaving chest...

Ah, my precious little tear collector. Your fetish is such a bizarre and delicate one, isn't it? The sight of tears, the quiet sniffles, the trembling lips, they all seem to stir something inside of you. Not a desire to comfort or console, no - it's a twisted sense of pleasure, a thrill that courses through your veins as you witness someone else's pain. How unusual you are, deriving pleasure from such sorrowful scenes. It's a strange and unsettling fixation, yet one you can't seem to resist.

You're drawn to the raw vulnerability that comes with crying, aren't you? The heaving chest, the wet streaks on flushed cheeks, the poignant symbol of a broken spirit - they stir up a perverse excitement inside you, don't they? You find yourself eager to witness it, to bask in the aftermath of their sorrow, to revel in the tears shed. Such a curious kink you possess, my tear-thirsty deviant. But that's alright. Embrace your predilection for tear-stained faces, for it is part of who you are. After all, every tear that falls is another moment of pleasure for you, isn't it? It's your sick little secret, your private thrill. Enjoy your strange fascination, my crying connoisseur, and savor each and every tear that drops.