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Posts Tagged ‘submission’

I see him today.

The time between meetings seems to drag and fly by alternately — depending on my mood, the quantity of work I have to do, and how the world immediately around me is spinning at any particular moment.

I try to update here with the sparkles of joy that emanate from me after we meet, but I am sometimes somewhat tardy. Know, however, that I leave his embrace only to walk on air. Sub-space has nothing on how I feel. There are not enough words of a sufficient calibre to describe it — and I speak as one to whom words are bread and meat, blood and air, sustenance and breath.

The excitement of the build-up begins to increase exponentially around noon. Four hours until… three hours until… Idly i flip through the pages on the site looking for something to catch my attention and refocus myself. I work listlessly, or on occasion frantically — determined to leave the rest of my life nehind me so that my whole being is focused on him, on he and I… on us.

From the moment the door closes, and it is just us in the room, I’m in a different place altogether. Despite my external, bouncy and excited demeanour, I am solemn and focused on the inside. It’s time for that thing, that ritual ceremony to happen.

I take this ritual very seriously. It heralds the start of every session, and for me, it’s like passing through a mental gateway. I remove my clothing, and then kneel before him, naked and shyly smiling. He fastens my collar around my neck, and holds me close to him, breathing in my smell as I breathe in his. When we are apart, he misses me too, a lot. I am constantly gratified and touched by how he never fails to demonstrate this to me, physically, vocally and mentally. He enquires how I am, and I know that he means now, this second, with my every sense engulfed in the very essence of him, knowing how different it is from the day-to-day, and delighting in my enjoyment of my submission.

And this is how it starts, and how this piece ends.

I quote the late great Jim Morrison:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ceremony is about to begin.”

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According to your wish, I write for you, and no one else. These words are inspired by you, and dedicated to you.

“Welcome,” you say, although you always pronounce it “well-cum”.

You lean back and look at me, taking in what you see. Five foot seven inches in heels, blue jeans, snug black low-necked t-shirt, pink-streaked blonde, curvy.

“You’re wearing far too much clothing.”

I remove my heels, then my t-shirt, then my jeans.

You take my hand and draw me towards you. Encircle my waist and hold me close to you. Your warm breath softly caresses my ear.

“You’re still overdressed.”

I’m overdressed? Me?” (In other words, I stand here before you in bra and panties, and you’re fully clothed!)

A sharp, stinging slap on my ass elicits a gasp of shocked pleasure.

“Yes. Fix it.”

I step out of my lacy black panties, and slower than i need to, i unhook and slide off my matching bra.

Your hands reach for me, holding each of my breasts in turn, before you grab my nipple and pull me closer toward you. I’m already wet, and desperate for you to feel it, but I know the way you think:

There’s no rush. Langsam. All in good time.

You hold out your wrist to me. I unbutton your cuffs, one by one.

I slide your shirt off you, and drape it carefully across the chair.

I kneel down to unlace and remove your shoes, and then your socks.

I unbuckle your belt.

I unhook and unzip your smart businesslike trousers. They fall to the floor with a jingle and a thump (how you move with all the gadgets and tzatzkes attached to them is a mystery to me).

I slide down to remove your underwear, until I’m resting on my knees, close enough to breathe on your skin, but taking no specific action until — unless — requested. (That would be topping from the — ahem — bottom.)

One of your hands on my face, the other on my shoulder. Your arms about me, stroking my back and my front. Our bodies pressed close together. You stroke my hair.

“My cunning linguist Pink Tabby. How are you?”

I feel like I belong to you, in this moment. I am no longer a cat who walks by herself. Symbolic gestures or pieces of leather are unnecessary, and hold no significant meaning for either of us. That which flows between us — that special way in which we commune, the almost telepathic mental connection, the constantly growing list of cannot-possibly-be-only-coincidences, the myriad likes and dislikes we share.

In this moment, it’s only you and I. No one else exists.

As if to seal the deal, you kiss me. I love the sweet way you always moisten your lips before moving in for the kill. I adore the soft touch of your mouth on mine. Being with you is like coming home.

You astounded me, when first we met, by assuring me that BDSM was not all about the fast, the hard, the rough, the extreme touch. That tenderness was a realistic expectation as much as a much-anticipated brutal flogging — that being aroused by either or both, in their specific circumstance, was not contradictory. In this kiss, you bring tenderness, and so much more.

And then you wind your fingers into my hair, and pull — intensifying my sensations to the point where my senses collide and I can feel the subspace, as though it were a chasm over which I were suspended.

The ceremony is over, but our time together is only just beginning.

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Arms secured, wrist to ankle.  Hemp binding breasts, above, below and around. Eyes, tightly and completely covered. Lying supine, prostrate… helpless? No, not helpless. Happy.

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I ended the previous section of this post at a point which I hoped sounded suitably dramatic and cliff-hanger-y.

Because, you know, I’m all about the evil. Well, no, actually, i ended the post in the middle, thereby forcing myself to write a part two, because i felt it was getting a little long.

Anyway, as I was saying: the wait began. Part of it was utterly unbearable. I am not the world’s most patient person at the best of times, those who know me well can attest to this. The anxious child within me refuses to be quashed, and continues to dominate my knee-jerk reactions to pretty much everything in my life, although she can be subdued most of the time.

But waiting is tough on her. And me.

What concerned me more than anything was how Sub 2 would react. More to the point, how the suggestion would make her feel. I asked Purrrrvert how he would broach the subject — since no meant an absolute and final no, I wanted to know how the odds were to be stacked against me from the outset.

“I plan to say to her: Look, this is how I feel, and what I would like to do. How do you feel about that?”

Fair enough, I thought. It’s not paving the way for her to say no, and it is presenting the situation accurately.

It still didn’t help much. I was still stressed and and now having to face the demons i’d been squashing mentally up until now.

Each time i meet someone new, I subconsciously hold back emotionally until I know the form the connection will take. Sounds fairly normal, right? I’m guessing that i’m not alone in that. I will say to myself — literally, sometimes — on the non-receipt of a phone call, or email, or sms that hadn’t been promised but had been hinted at, or alluded to: ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. No promise made is none broken. No emotional investment means I won’t be hurt; I can’t be hurt. ‘ (Ha.)

However, this was now a different situation. Now I was at the mercy of not the man I was hoping to begin an as-yet unspecified and not-really-defined relationship with — unless you count BDSM as specific enough a definition — but the two other women who knowingly shared his life. And my women friend readers will bear me out on this — we all know that women, while capable of immense compassion, care and gentle sincerity are also capable of evil passive aggression, defensive behaviour and subtle dismissive yet effective annihilation of anyone encroaching on their turf. Right? (Misogynists who comment offensively on this point will be bitchslapped, consider yourself warned.)

I was accustomed to an ostensibly monogamous and vanilla lifestyle. This was my first experience of real live polyamory, as I detailed in Part One. My expectations were wildly inaccurate for the setting in which i found myself, although I believe i can be forgiven since i was completely new to said setting; moreover that the “polyamorous” relationships i’d been privy to up to this point had all been of a secretive and underhand nature, where no one involved other than the central figure had known who or what was up with (or just plain up) who.

Now I found myself overwhelmed by the hitherto suppressed emotions and the feeling that I had never wanted anything so goddamn badly in my entire life; which, coupled with utter frustration, powerlessness and helplessness did not make for a calm and rational state of mind. I was entirely at the whim of another person. Another woman, to be specific. Another woman whom I’d met and gotten to know prior to meeting her Dom and getting to know him. I was concerned she’d see the almost-if-not-quite-actualized development of a relationship between he and I as a threat, as a deception, as an attack, basically. It had not been intended in that way at all… it had been he who began, he who introduced flirting to the mix of intellectual discussion and daft humour, and it had been he who had said “Sapphire, I would really like to get to know you better”.

But I know women. They will always blame the other woman, regardless of the facts, and rationale behind the situation. Hands up those of you reading who have experienced this? Yeah, thought so.

I was judging the situation (note: i do not judge people) on how I perceived the situation, and this too worried me. It seemed to be spotlighting horrible tendencies in me — if, hypothetically, my kneejerk reaction were someone else to want my partner (and I speak here on a philosophical level, lest you forget) would be to kick her to the curb but quick, involving one hell of an ass-whuppin’  and the threat of possible banishment by means of various anti-aircraft missiles.

And this reaction in and of itself stopped me in my tracks. Since i try to live according to the maxim “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”, i then took a step back. Why should my kneejerk reaction to sharing a polyamorous partner be so possessive, jealous, violent and generally unpleasant? Why, bearing in mind that monogamy and I have not been friends for many years now, would i not be able to grant the same freedom to a partner that i would want granted me? Purrrrrvert himself had made it clear that he did not expect me to be exclusive to him, and while i currently had no plans or extant connection with any other, the empowerment itself was enough to allow me to breathe.

Breathing is everything.

Come the day of reckoning — the Thursday night that Purrrrvert usually spends with Sub2. I spent the day in a state of unconscious breathlessness, managing to remain mostly calm during the day, but in the evening locking myself in the bathroom and wildly hyperventilating into a plastic duck.

I went to check my email sometime after aforementioned plastic duck incident, and I found a message to me from Sub2, which read as follows:

Hi Sapphire,

I just wanted to tell you that Purrrrvert talked to me today about your meeting. He was surprised to know that it was not a suprise to me. i know him i think more than he thought 🙂 i knew from our first conversation that you were his type :-).

I just wanted to tell you that as far as I am concerned, it is not for me to have an opinion regarding who he plays with. so i hope you have great time together, have fun.

Take care,
Sub2

I wrote back to her immediately, infused with a mixture of happiness, gratitude, relief and excitement.

Dear Sub2,

Thank you very very much for writing to me. I was really touched by your sweet message.

I don’t know if Purrrvert mentioned, but when he first broached the subject with me, my first thought was how you would feel about it, and how in no way would I ever want you to feel hurt by anything I did — and I told him so. Of course, he replied that without discussing such a thing with you and Sub1, under no circumstances would anything happen — which was a huge relief to me.

I confess; as a result of previous first- and second-hand experience, i did worry a little… however, I clearly underestimated you — big time. I apologize sincerely for comparing you with lesser people who behave with (a lot) less maturity, and grace.

I don’t need to say anything to you about your relationship with Purrrvert: for one thing, it’s neither my business nor my territory, and for another — what i could possibly tell you that you didn’t already know could be written on the head of a pin. What i can tell you is that i think you are a very lucky woman — not just because Purrrrvert is your master, but because of who you are inside: you are intelligent, very talented, mature and you have a very good heart.

I’m honoured to know you, and i hope you still consider me a friend — and will allow me to get to know you better over time.

Warm hugs,
Sapphire x

Almost immediately I finished writing, Purrvert popped up in my chat window, with his customary purr.

“I heard from Sub2,” I told him, all the while conscious of the over-tightly wound spring in my chest uncoiling, and the breath I had held for so many hours finally being allowed to escape and re-oxygenate my blood, and proceeded to tell him about her letter to me, and then I showed him what I’d written back to her.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“Relief. I’m exhaling. And I literally cannot stop smiling.”

He sent a smiley “cool” face (with shades). “I’m so glad. Now we tackle the next hurdle. But this one we do together.”

And this, to me, said it all.

This is how polyamory works. Honesty is everything.

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“You will write to me, won’t you?” he says, as he turns to me just before we part company.
 
“Er, like.. duh. ” I reply, somewhat inelegantly, belying my self-imposed titular comportment.
 
“No, what I mean is, i want you to write something specific.”
 
I raise a curious eyebrow, and gesture that he should elaborate.
 
“I want to know what made you think “Oooh, yes, more of this, more, more!” and what made you think “No, no, stop, no, don’t do that again.”
 
Again with the single curious eyebrow. “Was it not obvious?”
 
“Mostly, but i want you to be specific. There was a wealth of toys and playthings involved — which were better for you and which less so?”
 
Toys and playthings. I’ll say. I was the biggest of the playthings, even he would be the first to admit this. But it would be less an admission — implying confessional or sinful revelation; more a proud declamation. He is a self-confessed feline, and as such likes to have things to play with.
 
Playthings. Yes. That would be me.
 
*************************
 
It’s the sports bag i notice first. It is, frankly, huge, and is also a surprising colour.
 
“You said it was your big black bag of tricks! That’s not black, that’s khaki!”
 
“That’s one way to know if someone has met me — ask them what the colour of my big black bag is…!”
 
Out of said bag come a number of hiking pouches, each filled with a wide variety of implements of torture and pleasure, depending on your viewpoint from where you sit on the kink-o-meter. To say I was speechless is understating it to a huge effect. My eyes were like saucers, and my jaw hung open. Not so much at the level of evility and kink arrayed before me, but at the quantity. The best i could manage was a feeble “Fu-u-uck.”
 
He then took out a large halloween party carrier, shaped like a cat, naturellement — rawrrrr…. and told me to select what i wanted to play with today, and to put the items in there.
 
The items began to be shown to me, in order of how they’d fallen out of the sports bag. There were beaters, floggers, scrapers, strokers, pinchers, restraints and a remarkably wide variety of pervertibles. I recognised a large fish slice, and a silicon oven-glove in the shape of a dog from a bag containing kitchen-inspired instruments of kink — and then i saw something that looked mighty familiar.
 
“Hey, I have that very spatula! Except, of course, i actually use it when i cook.”
 
He looked me straight in the eye, almost snorting in an effort to restrain the bubbling mirth.
 
“You pervert.”
 
I laughed as hard as he did, and gasped. “I’m *so* blogging that.”
 
**************************
 
It took a lot longer than I’d anticipated* to set things up, but eventually i found myself lying on the bed, arms akimbo and restrained, one to the side and one to my ankle, using two types of leather wrist cuffs (one fur-lined intended for suspension use; very pretty and tactile), and legs — naturally — apart.
 
I must just take a moment to explain something here. Such a position is one that a person would only ever find themselves in consensually. It’s very easy to feel exposed and vulnerable. I was lucky enough to feel neither — only warmth and love. It didn’t matter what he did — if it would please him, it would make me happy. Plus, as his plaything, his big interest was in experiencing my reaction — that was a big part of what turned him on. The consent was almost tangible, the feelings were intense, and we both glowed — I could almost see it.
 
He straddled me, looking down at my smiling face, and restrained naked body, and ran his hand along my skin, before bending to kiss me.
 
“Do you want me to blindfold you?”
 
A mute nod, and 30 seconds later, and the most effective blindfold covered my eyes. “Another hiking pervertible — it’s a head band — warm on the peaks, and the most thorough blindfold I’ve found to date. It knocks the eye-covers that you get on an airplane, into a cocked hat.”
 
Indeed it does.
 
I lay there feeling like the most pampered submissive on the planet. I couldn’t move, and i was very aware that i was to abide by the rules, if i did not wish to be punished — said rules being a. not to come without permission, and b. to inform him if i were close to coming. But i like the feeling of being restrained. I enjoy the taut pull of rope on the ring of my cuff, and the feel of his fist entwined in my hair as we kiss, holding my head where it suits him.
 
I have said to him, several times, “It’s this feeling I get when you pull my hair — that’s how I know I’m a pervert. Whenever i worry that i’m dabbling, or I’m really vanilla and i wonder who the fuck am I kidding, — that’s when i remember the joy of  feeling of utter submissive helplessness, and dependence on the will of another — and how it speaks directly to my soul. And I know — I’m a kinkster at heart.”
 
Our time that day was short to begin with, and it flew by so quickly that i half-felt as though I’d dreamed it. I could write all about the thundering g-spot and gushy orgasms, not to mention the joy of combined lovemaking-fucking that I haven’t experienced in so long… it makes such a difference when you care about your Dom. Even more so when the feeling is mutually deep and intense — as it is, or so he tells me. (Meow.)
 
The dreamy quality of the afternoon was enhanced by my sensory deprivation, but no less than by the warm, dominant feline-like man who took care of me so well. It is to him i purr and dedicate this piece, knowing that it is only the first of many.
 
One more thing — in answer to your* question, YES to everything, and more, more, more. 🙂

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
  — William Blake

 *Yeah, I see you shiver. And yeah, I know who you are. Angel. Rawrr.

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My name is Sapphire. Sapphire the Fucktoy.

This is what my Dom calls me.

I love it.

I asked him to use my name. It wasn’t to assert my identity, or to spare me being completely submissive or anything like that. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but i knew it was something i wanted. I wrote to him:

I like how you referred to me as your fucktoy, your slut, your good girl…  However, i would love it all the more if you would also use my name — in this context…. I don’t know where you stand on this issue, or your philosophical leanings as far as using a sub/servant/slave’s name while in the throes of passion, but i’d be more than happy to hear them.

His initial response:

A big paragraph of what with no why.

Why?

I had to think about this long and hard before i replied. I wasn’t exactly sure why, and it took some serious consideration before i realised.

The first image to which he had me serve him was of him fucking me from behind, holding on to me by a leash, and saying my name: “Good girl, Sapphire… Good girl.” I had to have this image in mind, and masturbate until i came, hearing his voice saying my name in my head as i did.

The idea was and is incredibly arousing. No medical reason, or anything. It just added that extra level of spice, and it has featured in all my fantasies about him ever since.

It’s odd, because as i said before, it’s not that I’m attached to hearing my name in any deep and significant way. But the rules of everyone else do not apply with him — he is on a wholly different plane for me.

I explained this to him, ending thus:

It would mean a very great deal to me, although i will of course accept whatever decision you make.

(As Eliza Doolittle was wont to say, I’m a good girl, I am.)

The next time we met, his first instruction was “Kiss me.” As we kissed, the passion grew and grew until i felt my knees actually buckle.

He has this effect on me. I’m so lucky.

Suddenly, his hand, entwined in my hair, tightened its grip and jerked my head away from his. With a nudge from his other hand, he spun me around until his lips were close to my neck. He spoke as he kissed me, an arm holding me tightly around my neck, but not enough to move me to tears.

“So you want me to call you by your name?”

(Kiss, kiss, nip, kiss. My skin — on fire. My knees — buckling.)

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why, again? Give me a good reason.”

I reiterated. “It’s because you gave me the gift of hearing you say my name as i came, as part of the first time you gave me an instruction. It’s made hearing you say my name incredibly arousing to me, Sir.”

He smiled, I could feel it as he spoke.

“I like the name Sapphire the Fucktoy. I like that as a handle for you. I think it suits you.”

It does. It’s me.

Sapphire the Fucktoy.

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If ever an ordinary cup of coffee and a tuna salad played host to an extraordinary event, today was it.

Blind dates unnerve me, no matter what the circumstance. Blind dates with a self-confessed sadist and narcissist-in-recovery, before which i am not permitted to smoke, and with whom I am more than a little interested in exploring depths of my sexual psyche previously unexplored or even considered, scare the shit out of me.

It’s understandable, therefore, why i may have exhibited an initial display of defensive body armour.

I arrive and wait in the appointed place for a moment. Then, realising that I am 15 minutes early, and preferring fresh air to recycled air-conditioning, I step outside and sit on one of the swing seats, so thoughtfully placed by the management of the marina, and idly watch the boats bob up and down. Upon turning to go back inside, in order to be at the appointed spot precisely on time, I notice a large burnt out would-be entrance to the very same restaurant, the open and thriving version of which (located inside)  we have arranged to meet by. I sigh and realise that this could cause confusion, but i go back in to the concourse and wait, thinking that if he finds the non-version of the restaurant, he will phone me. No need to freak out. Chill.

Two minutes later, the phone rings:
“Why did you choose a burnt-out shell of a restaurant?”

“I didn’t, but I know where you are. Hold on, I’m coming to meet you.”

I exit the building and there he is, smiling as he surveys me quizzically. I smile back, ever-conscious that I’m really not sure how to act. This is to be the one occasion where I have the ability to dictate, so to speak, the proceedings. After this, he is in control. I’m still finding it difficult to understand exactly how the situation works. However, I know that I will eventually get it, and what’s more, it will be worth the transitional thinking. It will probably be osmosis that allows me to fully comprehend what I should do, what is expected of me and so on, that and paying keen attention to what he says to me today.

He doesn’t look very much as I had pictured — ever the writer, my mind had conjured up a different physique and the face, that, first seen in snapped splendour at the end of a work shift — wearisome and somewhat harried — did not compute with the animated searching visage spotted in profile outside the doors of the mall. No complaints — it was just…. different. Good different, definitely. His eyes in particular — bright, alive, piercing, and curious. And a beautiful colour.

A chaste kiss on the cheek — his instruction — and we begin to walk.

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

We pause to gaze at the boats, and he gives me his first impressions.

“You present more body armour in person, than on the phone. More defensive.”

I turn to face him, and laughingly explain.

“Look, I’m not the calmest and most serene of people anyway, blind dates of any shape or description make me nervous. And I haven’t smoked today.”

He smiles understandingly, and we move off.

We walk to the place where we will be sitting, and he gallantly allows me to choose the place where we sit. I pick a different table to his initial choice — not simply because this-is-my-date-and-I-can, but because the size and shape of the table lend themselves to a more intimate level of conversation.

We talk about this and that. I ask him questions that have been preying on my mind, and he answers them, fully, and frankly. I listen to the prosaic voice from our recent phone calls take shape within his facial expressions and body movements, enjoying how he becomes more and more familiar with every word. Appreciating what an amazing opportunity I have in front of me.

The more he explains, the more i relax. The more i hear, the more I realise that this time around, I made the right decision. It’s right that I’m here. In fact, nothing has ever felt more right. i find myself noticing everything he does — as though my sensory perception of him is uniquely heightened and attuned to him. Barely noticing what I’m doing, i eat my salad automatically until he turns to me and says:

“You know what I want you to do now?”

Stupidly, I nod, so engrossed am I in noticing how his mouth forms words.

“You do?” he asks, somewhat surprised that I have apparently metamorphosed into a psychic.

I shake my head, and smile. “Allow me to change that movement to this,” I say, as I shake my head.

“I want you to go into the bathroom, and come for me. Now you can picture me, my face, and who I am in person, use the same fantasy as you’ve used at my instigation over the last few days. You have five minutes.”

I stand, and leave for the bathroom, intent on getting there as soon as possible in order that I can do his bidding. Suddenly, there is nothing as important as fulfilling his wishes. I do exactly as I am told –bringing myself to a furious climax as i imagine him fucking me hard from behind, and permitting me to come, and his voice afterwards: “Good, Sapphire. Good.”

Despite the onset of an unusual stabbing head pain, i complete my task and return to the table, flushed and breathing heavily. He reminds me to thank him, and I do, blushing that I had forgotten to do so without being told.

Clearly the paradigm has shifted, so i incline my head a little and request permission to resume my salad. It’s granted, and gradually the conversation returns to something resembling normal. On the outside I am calm, but on the inside I am so happy that I have had the opportunity to show him my will to please him, and my ability to fulfil the instructions he has given me —  in person.

He has paid the bill while I was away from the table, and I thank him for that. He asks me how much time i have until I have to leave, and upon hearing how long we have, tells me to lead him to a more secluded and discreet spot.

I walk with him to my car, and on his instruction, unlock the door, throw my bags onto the passenger seat, and lock the doors once more. He tells me to follow him, and I do — to a niche in the back wall  of the car park, under a large heating pipe. I suspect that he is about to kiss me for the first time, and my suspicions are proved correct. I know that he has been in two minds about whether to kiss me in a manner less than chaste, knowing how much I wanted him to, and I’m truly touched that he has decided in my favour.

He stands me in front of him.

“Give me your mouth. No hands.”

I lean towards him and give him my mouth; he kisses me — passionately and deeply. I tentatively respond, unsure as to whether this is what is expected of me, but i hear no complaint from him nor do i feel as though I’m doing the wrong thing, so the response becomes less and less tentative as the kiss goes on. The kiss goes straight to my knees, and i struggle to stand upright, so intense an experience am i having. He sucks at my lips and tongue, and pulls my hair for the first time, sending a jolt of electricity to my cunt.  He pinches my nipple and i moan, unheard in the noise of the car park. He runs his hands up and down my body, feeling my flesh, pinching handfuls of it as though he is testing it or, more to the point, as though he owns it. Which, for now, he does. He pulls my hair again, and again, bending my head to the angle at which he wants it. It’s as if he is bending me to his will although, in truth, I am already bent that way. I get an immediate sensation of what he means when he says he wants me to be his fucktoy, and I love the feeling.

He ends the kiss, and sends me back to the car. With a brief goodbye he departs, walking off in the opposite direction. As i drive off, i pass him and incline my head towards him, my lips and cheeks still tingling from the feel of his stubble against my skin. I savour the feeling, reliving the kiss over and over in my head as I drive. No one has ever kissed me like that before; the depth of sensation has left me reeling as though i were drunk. My cunt is sopping — not so much from my previous masturbatory efforts, but as a direct result of the kiss — and stays wet and squelchy for hours afterwards.

As i drive home, and throughout the afternoon that follows, as I go through the motions of being present and correct at home, all i can think is how lucky I am to have met him, and how much more than ever I want to serve him. I have ceased to think of it in terms of the exploration of my sexuality — for now, all that matters to me is that i make my master happy.

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