He tied me up. Use the same ropes he first tied me up with, he bound my feet. My hands. So that I was unable to move, I was on my stomach, curved, just so, bound, just the way he liked.
He ordered me to lie there, not moving, not lifting my head, not making a sound. "Lie there, be quiet. Don't move." My long hair spread, on my face. in my mouth. I had no way to move them out of my way, so I let them drape all over me.
Earlier, he lifted me up, I was sitting on him, his face buried in me. I was riding on his face in that new dress. With my garter belt and stockings, I was otherwise exposed under the dress. So he took advantage of it. I was so afraid of being on top of him, with my legs straddling him. I touched his hair, curly, soft like I remembered, and I was on top of him, in a face sitting position, like it was right out of one of my favorite porn scenes. Then he took out the white rope - the mood decidedly changed, as we entered a different setting.
In a split second, he was in command. I tried to concentrate. He was all of sudden on top of me, his private parts squeezed onto my face, as he put pressure on me I could feel nothing but his private parts on my face. He put his balls on my mouth so that I could suck on them. So I did. He took his time before feeding his cock to me, and when he did they were jammed so deep I had to fight the urge to not to gag, and I was able to do so successfully. I had to ask him to remove my hair from my face. I was then placed on my stomach, legs and hands tightly bound, he started to take out the paddle so that he could spank me. He bought the paddle for me, for us, on my last birthday. That got me wetter than wet, he knew that about me. The moment he spanked me was the moment I was turned on, like a faucet I was turned on only by spanking. It was really that simple. I was wired to serve him. I was wired to be a sub. I was that someone who took pleasure in providing pleasure, someone who was turned on by some level of pain. He pinched me really hard. My nipples were on fire. Then he bit me. It hurt and I loved the pain sending through my spine. He was thrilled by my reaction because at that point he was making very animal like noise. He was louder than normal, he was very free in expressing himself, which surprised me and excited me. I liked how he was becoming less reserved. I kept my end of bargain. I was silent and motionless. He then fucked me from behind, side ways actually and then he made those noises as if I was not there, I was simply his flexidoll, and he was comfortable in his way of expressing himself in bed. He could do as he pleased with me, and I would be without any reaction at all. I was his toy and he used me as he pleased.
Then he lifted me up and brought me to the bathroom, in the bath tub, we began to engage in our brand of fun. I liked how warm, soft and incredibly soothing it was to bathe in his liquid, and I liked how it brought pleasure onto him as well. I was a mess. My hair sticky and my garter belt and stockings soaked as well. My make up smeared. He pushed me against the stall wall and there he entered me again. I caught him watching himself fucking me - the mirror reflected a man fucking me. I looked curved and smooth, he looked urgent and masculine.
Then we showered. He bathed and before I knew he had stepped out of the shower and got under the cover, I came to join him. My hair wet and make up removed. He was tired and drifting to sleep. I started to massage his back, his neck, and his shoulders. I had always wanted to do that to him. He had never wanted me to touch his body when we laid next to each other before. But this time he told me that he liked it. So I massaged his back as he did not resist it, and I did that for a while, thinking how lucky it was for me to finally give him a massage. How our relationship took a different turn. How at that precise moment, I knew what I did not know before. He loved me. It was real. I loved him. No doubt about it. But neither one of us was ready for a change.
I was afraid of change would mean that I might never feel that level of intensity again. I was afraid of making him seeing me more would make him wanting me less. I was afraid of seeing him more would make me love him less. I wanted the distance to feel my longing for him was real. It was as if I couldn't believe how much I wanted him, so the only way to feel that way, was for him to exit my life for a while, for me to request to be seen, and be denied by him, over and over again, before he was finally convinced and was agreeing to see me. Then I would realize how much he still cared about me and loved me.
I knew instinctively I would do anything and everything he'd ever told me to do, but rationally I was worried my love for him would grow mundane and unimaginative should we see each other more frequently.
Early in the morning, presents were exchanged. He showed me the book I made for him, which was sent to him earlier that night. Two and half years worth of writing from four different blogs, this blog that you were reading being one of the four. He thanked me for leaving some of the unflattering things out from the book. He asked if I was looking for a publisher. How could I? My life was a complicated, secret ridden, unbelievably colorful one, started out when I was barely a kid, there were many noteworthy stories to write about me, but this, this level of love declaration spanning over two and half years was not worth seeking a publisher for. I couldn't dare. It would be too personal, too raw, and frankly, not terribly interesting to others. In those two and half years, He knew that I was upset. I was sad. I was angry with varying degrees of disappointment and despair, but I did not want to show all that to him. So I chose the stories carefully to be included in this book. I wanted him to be reassured that my love was real, and in that reassurance process, I was convinced myself that I was able to persevere, and my life would go on as if I had not been broken into pieces, by him, by his acts, and by the mere fact of unknown future ahead.
But what if it was he who was broken? What if I was able to break a man who thought he had every wall built, shelter arranged, and escape hatches installed, in the event of an emotional outbreak? What if it was he who thought that he'd experienced it all, and nothing excited him any longer, yet it was I who made him feel alive again? What if I was able to finally affect and ignite him? What if I was meant to come into his life, to give his too-stale-too-predictable-too-easily-broken relationship history a jolt, a reinterpretation, so that he could feel that a man like him, a man who was terribly afraid of commitment and unable to retain and keep a relationship because of his cheating heart, could have a chance to eternal happiness?
I was born a French woman. I loved romance more than monogamy, while I could do away from having multiple partners, I could not do away from having one boring lover. If my lover should have a wondering eye, if my lover found happiness in receiving racy photos of his ex lovers, if my lover could engage in a threesome with me and a woman we brought back, I would be completely thrilled. If you loved someone, set him free.
But suppose, what if he, too, felt, for the first time in a long time, that he was genuinely loved and deeply cared for?
Suppose, he did also love me, what then? Where did this leave me?
He ordered me to lie there, not moving, not lifting my head, not making a sound. "Lie there, be quiet. Don't move." My long hair spread, on my face. in my mouth. I had no way to move them out of my way, so I let them drape all over me.
Earlier, he lifted me up, I was sitting on him, his face buried in me. I was riding on his face in that new dress. With my garter belt and stockings, I was otherwise exposed under the dress. So he took advantage of it. I was so afraid of being on top of him, with my legs straddling him. I touched his hair, curly, soft like I remembered, and I was on top of him, in a face sitting position, like it was right out of one of my favorite porn scenes. Then he took out the white rope - the mood decidedly changed, as we entered a different setting.
In a split second, he was in command. I tried to concentrate. He was all of sudden on top of me, his private parts squeezed onto my face, as he put pressure on me I could feel nothing but his private parts on my face. He put his balls on my mouth so that I could suck on them. So I did. He took his time before feeding his cock to me, and when he did they were jammed so deep I had to fight the urge to not to gag, and I was able to do so successfully. I had to ask him to remove my hair from my face. I was then placed on my stomach, legs and hands tightly bound, he started to take out the paddle so that he could spank me. He bought the paddle for me, for us, on my last birthday. That got me wetter than wet, he knew that about me. The moment he spanked me was the moment I was turned on, like a faucet I was turned on only by spanking. It was really that simple. I was wired to serve him. I was wired to be a sub. I was that someone who took pleasure in providing pleasure, someone who was turned on by some level of pain. He pinched me really hard. My nipples were on fire. Then he bit me. It hurt and I loved the pain sending through my spine. He was thrilled by my reaction because at that point he was making very animal like noise. He was louder than normal, he was very free in expressing himself, which surprised me and excited me. I liked how he was becoming less reserved. I kept my end of bargain. I was silent and motionless. He then fucked me from behind, side ways actually and then he made those noises as if I was not there, I was simply his flexidoll, and he was comfortable in his way of expressing himself in bed. He could do as he pleased with me, and I would be without any reaction at all. I was his toy and he used me as he pleased.
Then he lifted me up and brought me to the bathroom, in the bath tub, we began to engage in our brand of fun. I liked how warm, soft and incredibly soothing it was to bathe in his liquid, and I liked how it brought pleasure onto him as well. I was a mess. My hair sticky and my garter belt and stockings soaked as well. My make up smeared. He pushed me against the stall wall and there he entered me again. I caught him watching himself fucking me - the mirror reflected a man fucking me. I looked curved and smooth, he looked urgent and masculine.
Then we showered. He bathed and before I knew he had stepped out of the shower and got under the cover, I came to join him. My hair wet and make up removed. He was tired and drifting to sleep. I started to massage his back, his neck, and his shoulders. I had always wanted to do that to him. He had never wanted me to touch his body when we laid next to each other before. But this time he told me that he liked it. So I massaged his back as he did not resist it, and I did that for a while, thinking how lucky it was for me to finally give him a massage. How our relationship took a different turn. How at that precise moment, I knew what I did not know before. He loved me. It was real. I loved him. No doubt about it. But neither one of us was ready for a change.
I was afraid of change would mean that I might never feel that level of intensity again. I was afraid of making him seeing me more would make him wanting me less. I was afraid of seeing him more would make me love him less. I wanted the distance to feel my longing for him was real. It was as if I couldn't believe how much I wanted him, so the only way to feel that way, was for him to exit my life for a while, for me to request to be seen, and be denied by him, over and over again, before he was finally convinced and was agreeing to see me. Then I would realize how much he still cared about me and loved me.
I knew instinctively I would do anything and everything he'd ever told me to do, but rationally I was worried my love for him would grow mundane and unimaginative should we see each other more frequently.
Early in the morning, presents were exchanged. He showed me the book I made for him, which was sent to him earlier that night. Two and half years worth of writing from four different blogs, this blog that you were reading being one of the four. He thanked me for leaving some of the unflattering things out from the book. He asked if I was looking for a publisher. How could I? My life was a complicated, secret ridden, unbelievably colorful one, started out when I was barely a kid, there were many noteworthy stories to write about me, but this, this level of love declaration spanning over two and half years was not worth seeking a publisher for. I couldn't dare. It would be too personal, too raw, and frankly, not terribly interesting to others. In those two and half years, He knew that I was upset. I was sad. I was angry with varying degrees of disappointment and despair, but I did not want to show all that to him. So I chose the stories carefully to be included in this book. I wanted him to be reassured that my love was real, and in that reassurance process, I was convinced myself that I was able to persevere, and my life would go on as if I had not been broken into pieces, by him, by his acts, and by the mere fact of unknown future ahead.
But what if it was he who was broken? What if I was able to break a man who thought he had every wall built, shelter arranged, and escape hatches installed, in the event of an emotional outbreak? What if it was he who thought that he'd experienced it all, and nothing excited him any longer, yet it was I who made him feel alive again? What if I was able to finally affect and ignite him? What if I was meant to come into his life, to give his too-stale-too-predictable-too-easily-broken relationship history a jolt, a reinterpretation, so that he could feel that a man like him, a man who was terribly afraid of commitment and unable to retain and keep a relationship because of his cheating heart, could have a chance to eternal happiness?
I was born a French woman. I loved romance more than monogamy, while I could do away from having multiple partners, I could not do away from having one boring lover. If my lover should have a wondering eye, if my lover found happiness in receiving racy photos of his ex lovers, if my lover could engage in a threesome with me and a woman we brought back, I would be completely thrilled. If you loved someone, set him free.
But suppose, what if he, too, felt, for the first time in a long time, that he was genuinely loved and deeply cared for?
Suppose, he did also love me, what then? Where did this leave me?
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