He called me beautiful.
My Dom called me — his slut, his fucktoy, the person he uses when he needs to… beautiful.
I knelt before him, worshipping his cock as best I know how, enjoying the sensation of his skin on my lips, and under my gently teasing teeth. I kissed his cock, nuzzling the head and adoring it.
And he called me beautiful.
He took a hank of my hair in his hand, but he didn’t pull. He grabbed it, and then, with his thumb, he stroked the side of my face.
“Sapphire the Fucktoy is beautiful. Beautiful when objectified. So very beautiful.”
I was unable to respond. It was a moot point anyway, I am not permitted to speak without permission.
I know his definition and perception of beautiful is very different to mine, mine being based on appearance as well as what’s in a person’s soul, and his having its foundation in how a woman submits, and twists and turns in order to please her master — but it was, without a doubt, one of the few times when i felt that the epithet handed me was done so with the utmost sincerity… and it touched my heart.
I’m fairly sure that my soul is beautiful, even if intermittently, but from an external perspective, it’s rare that I am so complimented.
I’m still more than a little shaken at the events of the evening, as you’ll understand when you read about when i cried, but it was wonderful.
I don’t know where this thing is taking me. My head says I should walk away — actually, it’s less “saying” than screaming out loud. Or, to put it another way, were this a sign, it would be in foot-high neon letters. Flashing, no less.
But how could I ever walk away from him?