In sapiosexual support

Juno Henry and I go way back. She was the one who inspired me to write, and not only that. She inspired me to spread my wings and become the elegant slut I am today. It appears that her ex-lover, far from inspiring her to write as once he did, has become abusive and puerile. I am reposting her tribute to him, and her final goodbye, here on Elegant Smut. Because sometimes, you need more than one voice to silence the bullshit.

Read the original post.

Mr Henry has sadly suffered a hissy fit of epic proportions, which has led to his ultimate demise.

Once he was a studly and virile lover. Sadly, over the years his prowess waned considerably, and he has been reduced to whining and wailing dramatically in lieu of any real sexual interaction. His famously short cock, albeit rich in girth, lusts vainly after strapping young Korean lads, who wouldn’t touch the crusty old gaijin with a barge pole, and so much more so not their own.

His fetish for being cuckolded was what brought about his final downfall. Unable to accept that the woman who he repeatedly claimed to love over the course of 12 years, to whom he said over and over “It’s you. It’s always been you. It will always be you.” was free of him, and no longer wanted anything to do with him, he self-imploded.

The final straw came when she told him of her life and her stable of studly, sexy, virile lovers who have never even looked at a little blue pill, and her ongoing divorce. To her, as to most normal humans, this was called “news”, or “what’s going on in my life, man who I haven’t seen since 2006”. To him, this was an invitation to self-harm, throw a temper tantrum, and finally, completely, and utterly, lose his shit.

Upon the presentation via Facebook and email, of certain lewd and inappropriate suggestions on his part, and their subsequent rejection in their entirety, Mr Henry lost the plot. Expunging himself of much hoarded bile and ill-feeling, he wrote a pissy little note to this author, speaking of how he had also expunged himself of her and anything to do with her — and how this had delighted him.

And then he ceased to be.

He was, as the Pythons would have it, an ex-Parrot. Or similar. Although as metaphors go, parrot is quite appropriate for Mr Henry. When he spoke, whether on paper or out loud, much squawking did ensue. As he got older, so his writing got grayer, like the hair on his arms, back and shoulders. His notions became more staid and repetitive. His syntax grew stodgy and stale. His charm waned considerably, and his bright spark all but vanished. His delightful eloquence gave way to turgid loquacity, and his originality transmogrified into plagiarism and dullness.

In short, what was once love gave way to vitriol and ill-wishes. Misbehavior attractive in a rambunctious, tousle-headed child became loathsome and vile in an overgrown, immature malcontent. Was he always this way? Not according to my perception, certainly not then. But now — no question.

So goodbye, stranger who was once my adored love. Goodbye, farewell, good riddance, don’t let the swing door hit you on your wrinkling, saggy ass as you flounce away.

Rest in peace.

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A new understanding

I find that I am never able to entirely lose myself in a moment. To the extent of about 90-95% percent, my mind is floating in the air, moored down only by a firm and reassuring arm. But that rogue 5-10% of my brain is racing, creating a potential future piece of writing in my head.

[One could assume that any erotic experience I had was merely fodder for my writing portfolio. Well, you know what they say about assuming. This is not the case, although a lawyer could likely argue the fuck out of such a presumption.]

My erotic experiences, once a veritable festival of carnal experimentation, are now carefully selected. For me, it’s about the meeting of minds. A chemistry rare, delicate and intricate, that, once established, promises to strew the path ahead with surprises and perspicacity. But there is no predictive map or legend for this path. It’s all pretty much a crapshoot.

******************

I stood, facing the window, head pulled back by my hair, and a comforting, warm arm secured around my upper torso, as if anchoring me to the ground. Tiny, almost imperceptible butterfly kisses were planted all over me, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt myself all but take flight.

Understand something very significant. A gentle touch is not what usually turns my knees to butter. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that the feeling of tiny butterfly kisses is something I don’t even usually notice. And yet there I was, headed for the ceiling head first, as if I were filled with helium. (Ethereally speaking, of course.)

In my head, while 95% of the little man in my head was committed to the mental floatage, 5% of him was fiercely writing notes on “I never fully understood the meaning of the word “sensuous” before”. It’s true. Today I learned the real meaning of the word.

The invited touch of another’s hand on your skin is usually a good feeling. I speak of something that far transcends this. The sensuous feeling of his lips on my skin transported me to some far-off plain — and the only way I can explain it is that it was chemistry: the who (him) far more than the what (tiny, gentle butterfly kisses, cloaking me in gossamer as I flew).

His hand on my shoulder made me shiver. His arm around me suffused me with a delight I’d not felt in a while. And through all this — the kissing continued. And higher and further I flew, the feeling continuing to soar within me, the slightest touch sending ripples of ecstasy through my nervous system.

Was this how, or why, he managed to elicit ejaculatory orgasms from me almost non-stop? My still-wobbly knees are testimony to how thoroughly I irrigated the surface beneath me time and time again.

Was this why, as I sat enfolded into a tetrahedral bear hug, his body still entwined around mine, panting for breath and coming back down to earth, that I felt so comfortable and safe?  Was it why I could have stayed there until now?

Was this how he felt too?  Was my touch — be it from my hand or from my lips — sensuous to him in an equable manner? I so delighted in hearing his moans of pleasure; it enhanced my own pleasure tenfold, so I did my best to elicit as many as I could.

Was this why, each time I looked into his eyes, he was always looking into mine? Whenever I looked away, I felt him watching me, waiting patiently until I met his gaze once more– and each time I looked back, he smiled softly and I instantly understood what his smile was saying.

It would certainly seem that way.

There is sensuality, and there is that which is sensuous. I’ve now had the difference between the two proven to me without a doubt.

Everyone should be so lucky.

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Hug

When warm embrace
Becomes tight caress
Imprinted, skin on skin
Essential proximity
My face buried in you
As if you were oxygen
The need to clasp
To hold on tight
That abject hunger
Insatiable need
To inhale you
Drink
My fill
Devour
You.

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Intermittent missings

The NEMRF is a huge catalyst in my day-to-day humdrum existence.

Yes, I have a day-to-day humdrum existence, doesn’t everyone?

Every so often, someone plugs me in and I light up like a Christmas tree. I sparkle — sometimes, I even go as far as to expound a shiny little rain shower. Usually it’s the Big Bad Cat. It’s hard to spend even a minute with him without my glowing from the inside like a Jack O’Lantern.

But other than that, I’m just me.

I do not complain, please do not misunderstand me. Once, years ago, there was no enlightenment. I floated from day to day, week, to week, month to month, year to year. I was not myself, I had lost the essence of me. I was buried and smothered under a sea of mundanity.

And then I rediscovered life.

I found myself through a process of awakening that began over five years ago, that was catalyzed by my falling in love. I have been in love several times since then, and am still in love in certain of these cases. The true love of my life, prior to meeting the Evil Rotten Cat, who is a deeper and no less true love and Cat-of-my Heart, was and remains my love.

This is what they call polyamory, folks. Living and breathing. Loving more than one person.

I speak now of the love I mentioned, the one who came before the Cat. We are barely in touch for a number of reasons, mostly involving his own personal hell, which has effectively straitjacketed him to the extent that we communicate rarely and sporadically. On paper, that is, or rather on screen. We still have a degree of telepathy that is frighteningly effective. He will think of me, and I of him, and then we will find out letters crossing in mid-stream. He traveled to this region last year, not actually to this country, but over the border.

He wrote to me:

“When I stood on the eastern shore of the lake and gazed toward your country last year, I called your name.  Didn’t you hear me?”

I checked my diary. I’d written of him on the day he mentions. He’d been in my head the way he usually is in my heart.

He is older than I, by 17 years. He has experienced life to the full, in both the positive and, unfortunately, most negative sense. He owned my heart as he was the first to fully expose it, to tease it, to provoke it to love harder, deeper, fuller than ever before. He encouraged me and my creativity, he dragged me with him on eternal flights of fancy, he opened my eyes to real erotica and all that lay beyond.

He wrote to me:

“I miss you more than you can possibly comprehend.”

Really? He’d be surprised at how much I can.

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New rope, new hands

How strange.

Familiar rope,
Identical manner,
Different hands,
Different eyes,

Increased concentration,
No less concern,

Twinkles of —
if not love —
Then certainly affection,

How very familiar,

And yet,

How strange.

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Why, How and Where?

I begin with a quote from that wisest of prophets, Douglas Adams (ז”ל):

“The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why, and Where phases. For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question “How can we eat?” the second by the question “Why do we eat?” and the third by the question “Where shall we have lunch?””

Following on from my expose of the connection between “How I Got Into BDSM” and my fabulous (yet to the untrained eye normal-if-voluptuous) breastage, my aim in this post is to examine the How, Why and Where phases of me — Sapphire the Elegant and Eclectic Slut– in the world of BDSM.

Why am I here? Simple. I’m a pervert. It’s such a shame that the word has such a negative connotation, when in reality what it means is “alternate” or “different”. To pervert the course of justice, for example, is to take it along a very different path from that which it was intended. Thing is, I never thought I was a pervert. I thought i was a weird chick, with fabulous tits (that did nothing for her in any sexual context), and a penchant for strange rape fantasies.

I could never speak about any of this to anyone I knew because if I did they’d think I was certifiable, and send for the men in white coats. I realise now, what with retrospect being 20:20 and all, that the reason I had rape fantasies was because it was the only cultural frame of reference in which I could fit my innermost desires of pain, violence, and restraint in any positive manner.

And since anything even vaguely resembling kinksters, or S&M (as it was known in those days) or anything abnormal or weird-seeming was not something that nice good Jewish girls did or associated themsleves with.

Heh, how wrong can a person be?

How did I get here? Well, to cut a long story short, after an eight-year dearth of sex in any shape of form, my sex drive suddenly re-awoke and I fell in love for the first time, with a kinky transvestite who lived overseas.

And so I was introduced to the world of kinky sex, and I realised that I’d been holding myself back for years, because i was conditioned from childhood to be that nice Jewish girl… i’m still all of the things I was brought up to be — and also a raging pervert. In the nicest possible way.

🙂

That was how I got here, or rather, that was portal through which i started on a voyage of discovery, upon which I am still engaged — each day brings me something new to learn and at which to marvel.

The where question — well, how would you define that? Where am I going? Where indeed, Douglas my old mucker, are we having lunch? (I vote for sushi.) Fuck knows. All I know is that as the journey goes on and the path I follow develops becomes longer, and more exciting, so I become more true to myself.

Long may it continue.

(Probing questions in comments will be answered seriously and at length.)

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Superior Support Required

The Girls are as much a part of me as any other, but since they protrude somewhat more that certain other areas, they are more distinct and noticeable.

Well, they do protrude from my body rather, it isn’t exactly easy to miss them. 🙂

Not that I give people much opportunity to miss them. In real life, they’re out there, real and spectacular. In virtual life, they’re out there on camera — check out my profile on Fetlife, if you don’t believe me. They’re the stars of the show. They even make the occasional appearance on my little corner of the Fetlife blogosphere.

Heh.

What I realised today, in conversation with a friend and fellow pervert, was that it was the Girls who got me into BDSM. No, seriously.

I shall explain for you, gentle reader — from your puzzled look and audible “Uh, wha…?” I can tell that I have somewhat puzzled you, Fear not, all will be revealed.

I lost my virginity — the original one — at age 21. Prior to that I had been almost-sexually active since I was 16 — and prior to that there had been a lot of snogging but not much else. (This is what happens when you grow up a nice Jewish girl.)

However, there was always boob-feelage. The girls, in all their incarnations and all their bra types and sizes (I went through a phase of wearing sports bras for years — not the cool tops I wear now when i’m pyjama-ing it at home, but actual white bras, with little crossed tennis rackets in the middle-y area, instead of the traditional bow — they were comfortable to the point of being able to sleep in them, but they made me look awful) have always attracted attention, even when they weren’t dressed to their best advantage.

But then, that’s what boobs do.

I’ve watched men, with whom I was walking, or drinking coffee, literally do a 180 degree headspin and snap-back at an oversized pair of hooters walking by. It never bothered me, in fact it was something of a relief that for once it wasn’t my pair that was magnetizing stares all around. I remember one time laughing hilariously, when it took a while for the men in question to realise that they’d just witnessed a pair of falsies on a very attractive transitional transgender (it may have been a crossdresser, I don’t know, but he was gorgeous and had a stunning pair of titties, with a pants-bulge that did everything but complement them).

Thing was, it never did anything for me. Feeling up the girls, I mean. Licking them. Kissing them. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch.

And then one hot and sweaty occasion, someone grasped a nipple between their thumb and forefinger, and squeezed — and I nearly hit the ceiling with ecstasy.

And the rest, as they say, is history. 😎

I guess I owe the Girls a lot. More than just their own blog post. Maybe I should gold-plate them, or make images of them in plaster of paris… what do you think? Suggestions and comments in the comments area, please.

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*Such* a pervert

I am *such* a pervert. You wouldn’t believe it. I certainly can’t.

It just never seems to properly sink in.

No matter what I do, or what I write — not just here but on Twitter, Fetlife, and various local sites, no matter where or what I write or discuss, the reality of the depth to which my various kinks, fetishes and perversions sink simply does not ever fully register.

It’s utterly bizarre.

Even my latest email from the Big Bad Cat which begins “Hello, my dear Pervert!” doesn’t help it sink in.

And then we meet. He takes me in his arms, and kisses me passionately, and then tweaks my nipple eliciting a high-pitched squeal from me, causing my knees to buckle, and my cunt to moisten.

And I say it. Every time, the same phrase.

“Dear lord, I am *such* a pervert.”

I think Purrrrvert sees it as some kind of a challenge, as if I were sitting there on the bed, nonchalantly tossing gauntlets in his direction.

He raises a hand and lands a plump thwack on my backside. I absorb the blow, squeaking with pleasure-pain. Though I was brought up to wish an end to pain when it happens, the knee-jerk reaction that flies impossibly through my head is always “Thank you, Sir. May I have another?”

I love how it feels. The sensation of the thudding palm against my softly reverberating ass. It always makes me shiver with delight and then angle myself slightly forward, to be able to absorb another.

When he reaches into his big black bag of toys and pervertibles and withdraws the little mesh bag of kitchen utensils, I know I’m in for some fun. The fish slice is a bastard. The ladle is a fucker. The stainless steel egg-whisk is a total bastard fucker. The spatulas — one red and flat and slappy, the other more aesthetically pleasing, purple and ergonomically designed, with a twin who lives in my kitchen — but I use it *as* a spatula, earning me the nickname of “true pervert” — both have ways to cause me to groan, gasp and even gush with sheer pleasure.

How do I reconcile the character image of the nice Jewish girl I was brought up to be, and the fact that kitchen hardware makes me leak cunt-juice all over the sofa? Philosophically, it’s quite a conundrum. I mean, I’m on the parents’ committee of my kid’s class, for fuck’s sake. I sit in meetings, discussing the end-of-year event, and whether we should have a barbecue or go to the beach, offering sage and sound advice about the safety of our children and how best to get the other parents to produce food marginally more exciting than a plate of devilled eggs, and other such deeply significant banalities — and deep inside I silently wonder whether anyone would notice if I had a crafty wank in the guest bathroom, and whether, if  I pinched my own nipple hard enough to make myself scream, I could resist the temptation to do so, and remain silent.

He ties me up, and I zoom so fast into subspace it’s a wonder I haven’t been diagnosed with whiplash. Last week, as previously documented, I allowed him to do a demo on me of breast bondage — after which my feet did not touch the ground for over four days straight.

This is not the reaction of a normal person, is it? Mind you, who the fuck ever wanted to be normal?

My constant refrain, when he arouses me with a word, an act or a specific command, is “I am *such* a pervert!” It’s very true… and I freely admit that I am proud to be so. It’s difficult to explain to people in the vanilla world — in an upcoming trip to my home town, i will have to explain to my sexually-liberated-but-very-vanilla-with-it BFF.

That’ll be an experience.

It is by allowing my inner pervert to rise up and embrace my outer, seemingly well-behaved, conformist, afraid of authority shell of a self who floated through eight years of control-freakism, that I become the real me and experience real life. I value that beyond belief, and now that I’ve discovered what it is to really live, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Normal? Maybe.

Necessary? You bet your ass.

Perverted? Totally.

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Attention slut in subspace

(That title sounds like a punctuation challenge — something like “eats, shoots and leaves” — don’t you think, gentle reader?)

Ahem.

Yesterday I attended my first play party.

Yes, my first. Forty fucking years old and while unarguably more than adequately experienced in the delights and possibilities of the varied and more notably BDSM-oriented ways of the bedroom, I’d never done it elsewhere.

I mean, I have been to a munch or two, and have even organised a couple. I went to an informal demonstration meeting where I saw some brave girl be set on fire by a certain mean and rotten feline.* 🙂

But never a play party.

I mean, this was *officially* a birthday party. My friend N organised a surprise 40th birthday party for her master. We became friends online, N and I, and only met in person recently, and I’d not seen her with her guy. And how sweet it was to do so — the love they have for each other is mutual and almost tangible in its intensity. It was a wonderful sight to behold, and i felt honoured to share the event with them.

There was, of course, another dimension to all this.

N had asked Purrrrvert if he would help break the ice a bit. Parties have this habit of being people standing around in clumps, mournfully nursing a solitary beer while discussing something mundane with the same people with whom they always stand. Purrrrvert, being the highly scene-experienced evil mean and rotten cat that he is, offered N a demo to get the party going. On me. Breast bondage. Le swoon!

Me and my boobs go back a long way. Almost as far as I can hoist them over my shoulder, in fact — heh. I’m big — between 38-40 DD/E. (Stop swooning, breast lovers, there’s more. And no, I am not posting pictures.) But from a sexual perspective, beyond having the ability to stop a person in their tracks and leave them drooling and wild-eyed, they never did anything for me. Gentle caresses, loving kisses — meh. Until someone pinched my nipple, and I leapt four feet into the air in ecstasy.

It was my first official milestone on the long road to recognition that — yes, I am a pervert. 😎

Back to the point. I stood in front of a bunch of people — they all lounged around on sofas and easy chairs, while i stood in the spot directly beneath the air conditioner (because I am a Pink Tabby and I can), and Purrrrvert wound a gloriously blue colored rope around, over and under the girls — and I incrementally zoomed higher and higher into sub-space.

I didn’t lose consciousness, or even self-consciousness — being an attention whore (AKA former Drama student, currentsinger, drama/comedy writer and director), willingly standing up in public and being looked at by people is just one of my raisons  d’etre. My sluttishness does extend to matters beyond the carnal; intelligence and intellectuality get me wet, for example, and humour makes me swoon. But yeah, I’m an attention slut. Hell yeah.

However, the attention to my half-naked person raised some initial self-conscious feelings even with me, and I found myself staring at a fixed point on the ceiling, not quite able to look my audience members in the eye(s). But I was smiling my head off, laughing with various people watching, and talking to N, who was over in the corner with her beloved master. He  was flogging her mercilessly with a fabulous new flogger she’d had made for him as a birthday present — it was adorable to watch the dynamic of  “Ow! Shit! That fucking hurt! OK, do it to me again”, (or to put it in cinematic terms, “Thank you Sir, may I have another?”) that went on between them.

But I was definitely in space. In fact, with each twist and kink in the rope, I soared higher and higher. He wound a bikini-like pattern around me, and it felt… fantastic. I love how he binds me — and he loves doing so. It’s a match made in heaven.

And when I’m with him, I always  feel safe and secure and loved and adored. This was no exception — I was undergoing bondage, in the company of friends, and I was very, very happy. Gradually the self-consciousness faded, and I became acutely aware of how natural I felt to be standing there, with this blue karada bikini around my chestage, laughing and talking with people.

Once he was done, and i’d elicited some enthusiastic applause for the paw-work of the Purrrrvert, an older woman came up to us, and greeted Purrrrvert enthusiastically — way back when, he had taught her certain bondage skills, and she wanted to show him how she’d improved. Purrrrvert turned to me.

“Would you be OK if someone else had a go at binding you? She wants to show me a technique she perfected — but only if it’s OK with you, dear.”

I agreed happily.  Actually, I was so ecstatic at that point that I’d quite possibly have agreed to being branded with a fire-iron at that point — but that’s the joy of Purrrrvert and a big part of why I love him so deeply. He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me, ever. Had someone advanced on me with a big fire-branding iron shaped like a penguin, knowing my penchant for the waddling little Antarctic dwellers, Purrrvert would have been there to stop me making an addle-brained decision.

She partially unwound me, and then did this thing where she individually wrapped each boob with a length of rope, and then yanked them hard using the rope as a pulley mechanism, causing the girls to be pulled round, taut and closer together. A bit like a rope equivalent of the Wonderbra.

But that did it for me. I took off — mentally — and as a result am only dimly aware of the memory of Purrrrvert unwinding me, turning me round and around like a chicken on a spit,  then gently helping me replace my blouse over my unfettered cleavage, and sitting me down in a warm embrace, where I stayed, snuggled into his shoulder until my senses were somewhat restored to normal.

It was amazing. The whole experience. I’ve never felt so alive… so myself.

I love you, angel. Thank you so much.

************************************************

*Fireplay is a risk accepted consensual kink, but should never be performed recklessly or without due regard to safety, sanity and — if it needs to even be said — consent. The point of that demo was to show how fireplay should be done, and what to consider, what instruments and material to use, and how to avoid pain, scarring and — heaven forbid — 1st, 2nd or 3rd degree burns, and it was very informative. (Catch me doing that — as if!)

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Give me one

“Give me one,” he says to me.

I am lying spread across the bed, arms and legs secured akimbo, a warm muffler as a blindfold across my eyes. 

He is half-sitting and half-lying on and over me, stroking my skin, pinching me and flicking me, mini-slapping me with various pervertible slappy devices (beer mat, bookmark, bouncy rubber cat toy) to the sound of me yelping in pain and then sighing with ecstasy alternately.

Every so often he leans over me, his face so close to mine i can sense the warmth of him. I lift my head, hoping to catch his lips with mine in a warm and passionate kiss — and every so often he indulges me. But not always. This is, after all, his game. He makes the rules.

And how I love how he does so.

He pinches my clit, until i scream in ecstatic agony — and give him my orgasm, right into his palm.

*******************

“Give me one,” he demands from me.

I’m free-standing, the requirement is that i stand upright and allow him to toy with me as he pleases.

But of course. Could it ever be any other way? 😎

There are the basic assumptive roles into which we naturally and easily slide — catalyzed by our opening ceremony, which sets the scene very effectively for who and what we are when we are together. This is a role-play of sorts, but one that goes beyond any role-play of teacher and naughty schoolgirl, or of adult male returning to her home the young, naive and inexperienced babysitter.

His hand contracts, and his  fingers slide further inside me. I struggle to remain upright, eventually grasping onto the bookcase frame nearby as the alternative is to allow my knees to buckle. I look at him, my eyes pleading for clemency, and his acquiescent nod acknowledges the reality of the situation, and permits my frame-graspage.

I lose control, and come, screaming my ecstasy, and gushing what feels like gallons of come down my leg and onto the rug. And collapse into his warm embrace.

*********************************

I love how he demands that I *give* him my orgasm. I give him my submission, and I give him my love — and I do so with all my heart, love, trust, warmth and being. But give him my orgasm? What? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? That he gives me one?

Orgasms are usually perceived as something that we take from our partners. Furthermore, there is no requirement for love or even any feeling that transcends beyond base animal attraction and lust in order to achieve that particular brand of ecstasy. 

And yet, here he is, and he turns it on his head for me. “Give me your orgasm.” He sees it as a gift to him, and I find this fascinating, unusual and absolutely amazing.

To him, the fact that i experience the overwhelming sweep of bliss that streams through me like a light-sabre, then shudder as if undergoing (a very delightful form of)  electro-therapy and then (eventually) collapse against him, limp and sated, breathless and panting, is all evidence that I have given him a gift? So much the better.

***********************************

Later, he presents me with a healthy and highly inviting erection — a result of some dedicated and willing attention from my mouth and tongue — and demands that I clamber astride it. He didn’t have to demand. I’d have done it anyway. However, he is in control, therefore the instruction must come from him.

It’s how we like doing That Thing It Is That We Do.

Agreeably, I situate myself above him and slide him into me. He grasps my arms, dictating my every move, moving me up and down faster and faster, hitting my G-spot as he himself drifts off before my eyes onto a cloud of ecstatic joy. He looks into my eyes, and whispers to me.

“I love how your cunt feels around me.”

I nod, I smile my special smile at him, my eyes never leaving his.

“I’m going to take mine now.”

“I give it to you with all my heart, my mind, my soul and my cunt.”

“I love you, my kitten.”

“I love you, Don Gato.” 

He comes, his all-but-silent “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” echoing around the room, belying its near-silence.

I love being with him, I love fucking him, I love him fucking me, I love how he tells me how he loves my cunt and how it feels to be inside it, I love how he touches me when i sit at his feet, I love the way his skin feels on mine…

I will always give him whatever he wishes. Orgasms and otherwise.

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