Signed (14)

it’s been a long long while since I attacked this story…and then the spark reignited in the shower on Thursday morning…so for those of you waiting to see what comes next? Here you go. I’ll hope to wrap up this story before October goes…~nilla~

She served Him.

If not happily, if with a certain amount of sullen compliance, well…who would be happy about having nipples secured to clamps, secured to the collar around her throat?

He’d unhooked her hands, thankfully, though the heavy chain cuffs remained.  She wasn’t sure how she would have accomplished the task of feeding Him the tiny tidbits of roast beef, succulent steaming broiled potatoes, glistening green beans with almonds, with her hands pegged behind her back.

Unfortunately He also made her serve the ever-smug Reggie. She just wanted to bite him, and he knew it. He cast her amused glances, tugged her nipple chain a few times and generally pissed her off just by breathing.

But she got through it.

Even more surprising, she got turned on by it. The weight of the chains around her wrist, the firmness of the collar, the pinching pain of the clamps on her tits somehow twisted inside of her until she was aching to be fucked. His voice broke her reverie, as she stood by His side waiting for the next command.

“Time for dessert, slut.”

She wondered what delightful treat He would eat in front of her. With the cock gag firmly in place, she was able to enjoy only the scents of the food He and Reg consumed. Drooling was a constant worry.

“Come here.”

He pointed to the small space between his legs and the table. Now what? His fingers worked the clamps, releasing her right nipple. A sudden, sharp slap of pain made her bend over, moaning.

“I know, it hurts more when it comes off. You’ll just have to learn to breathe through it. You’re very pretty in your agony, you know.”

The second clamp came off and she squealed. Oh fuuuuck!

The blood rushing back into her tortured nips was filling them, swelling them, aching with the influx of fluids. She could feel them puckering into fat, painfully hard points. His fingers rolled and massaged them, hurting and soothing simultaneously. Her forehead pressed to his shoulder, her tits hanging down between them, eyes squeezed tight, she was horrified to realize that the drool was leaking from her lips. She’d forgotten! There was too much to remember…drool and pain and…

She refused to admit to how excited she was. How alive. In a week, this stranger had totally changed her. Aroused her and brought her fully aware of every breath she took.  His hand slid between her thighs, rubbing her pussy. Shamefully, she could feel her hips rocking, setting a counterpoint to His delicious strokes.

“She’s humping your hand?”

“That she is.”

The men were amused, but she was too lost in sensation to care. Until He stopped. She growled through the gag, drool running freely down her chin.  His laughter made her want to pull His ears off!

“Up you go, slut.”

As suddenly as that, she was lifted, tipped back onto the table. He stood between her sprawled thighs, His cock suddenly free of his khaki’s and pushing at her pussy. He took her thighs, pulled her towards Him, impaling her on his shaft until her butt hung just off the edge of the table.  He paused as His cock filled her totally, hitting all the right places. Her pussy burned to be used. She felt the throb in her clit, in her throat, and deep under her belly button. She wanted Him. Wanted Him to use her.

“Ask me for your dessert, slut.”

Her eyes implored Him to continue but He held there, making her capitulation complete. Around the gag, she choked out the words, the sound guttural and incoherent.

“uukk eeee”

His smile was that of a wolf, coming upon a fat and juicy rabbit. Hunger flamed in His eyes, fingers bit into her tender skin as He pulled away from her pussy, then slammed back inside her moist hot tunnel. She could hear the sucking wetness as He moved in and out of her, then all rational thought fled as the first wave of release threw her into a senseless abandon. The chains on her cuffs rattled as she grabbed His wrists, urging Him faster, harder, deeper. His thrusts answered that plea, driving into her with an urgency bordering on obsession. His hips bucked, her ass rose, meeting Him. Her hips moved in tiny figure eights, rubbing and squeezing His thickness as she drove up for another orgasmic explosion. She arched, cumming hard, as He pressed into her tender belly, withdrew, then speared her again.

Shaken, shuddering, she felt another ripple of pleasure begin to unfurl, felt His cock barreling into her. His pace increased, and she knew He was close. When He came, she swore she could feel each pulsing explosion as His hot cream filled her.

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

She must have passed out. When she woke she was on the floor under the table. He’d disappeared somewhere, for she was alone. The gag, collar and cuffs were gone, though the memory of the nipple clamps remained on her tender bits. She felt between her thighs, somewhat amazed at the heat and wetness still there.

“Good, you’re awake. Clean yourself up now, and let’s get to work on the dishes.”

Reg spoke, nudging her with the toe of his sneaker.  He dropped a damp cloth onto her leg.

“You can go. I’ll be in the kitchen in a minute,” she grumbled at him.

“I think I’ll just watch and make sure you don’t miss any spots.” His smile gleamed.

“I–you’re a bastard.”

“Yeah. I know.”

His smile was unrepentant. Reaching down, he tweaked one nipple.

“Get a move on girl, He’s got other plans for you tonight and there are a lot of dishes to do.”

Yelping she rose to her feet, slapping his hand away.

“That hurts! Ouch! Cut it out.”

“That’s kind of the point, girl. Clean that. Now.”

He pointed at her pussy. Reluctantly, and avoiding all eye contact, she used the damp towel to clean her pussy, down the crack of her ass, her thighs.  He came forward, palmed her.

“Good. All nice and clean.You know, good girls get rewards.” He slipped a sliver of chocolate between her lips. The taste exploded in her mouth. Her belly reminded her just how long it had been since she’d had food. Reg guided her into the kitchen as she moaned in happiness.

“I think I just had a mouthgasm” she muttered.

He laughed, tugging her through the doorway.  A plate sat at the island, a smaller version of what He had for dinner. Reggie pushed her towards it.

“Go eat. Then get to those dishes. I’ll be back in an hour.”

She looked at the pile of dishes and plates on the counter. Pots and pans tumbled over the stove top, and in the sink. Reg might have been a damn fine cook…but he was also a master mess maker. She would have sighed at the task ahead of her, but the call of the plate was too strong. Without even looking back at the departing man, she slid onto the stool and lifted the first forkful into her mouth. Eyes closed in ecstasy she chewed happily for a moment. Remembering the task that beckoned behind her, she quickly finished the rest of her meal, and turned reluctantly to the overflowing sink.

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

HNT-Sari for the Teasing….

 

My dear friend Donna sent me this Sari cloth last year, and I LOVE it. The color is mysterious…blue in some light, green in others. Such is the nature of beautiful silks. The needlework is gorgeous as well. I found it while organizing my bedroom last week, and started playing around with it…and voila! HNT!

Thank you Donna! You wouldn’t believe how much fun I have with this. When I was little my mom would -very rarely- let me play in her box of remnant fabrics…and this brings that same joy to my spirit.

Happy HNT!

sari

 

Orgasm Overload

“You had an orgasm when I was pinching your nipples. Do you remember that?”

His voice is deep, amused, tender.

“No Master.” And I didn’t. There are vague memories of standing there, my back to His front, His hands gripping my breasts, squeezing hard enough to have me squirming and moaning, writhing around against Him. The memory of His voice, soft and innocent in my ear. “What? What slut? Hmmm?”

There was no “away” to get to, as He held me tight against Him. The only way to move, with His solid strength behind me, was forward. Yet, if I did, it would have meant pressing more of my tender tit flesh into His hands. THAT wasn’t going to happen.

No how, no way!

At last He relented and apparently, somewhere in there, I had an orgasm. I remember wetness on my thighs, gasping…then…blank.

Pure sensory overload.

I have little snippets of memories…the immediate attack on my clit comes to mind. Pinching and twirling, rubbing and slapping to be specific. It was…well…overwhelming. Good. Awesome. My clit throbs even now as I think of it. And yes, that made me cum too. And while I was in the throes of that orgasm, His fingers dive into my pussy, His thumb up my ass and I scream into an even more intense orgasm.

And apparently squirted all over His hand.

🙂

Nothing like pussy honey hand cream, Master. *laughing*

He has a double insertion dildo/vibe that He uses. It is fucking huge, and I always, always get up and over and into subspace when He uses that thing. Fingers working my clit, the vibe humming in my ass and cunt, His words dark and dirty.

It is the epitome of objectification as He watches with hawk-like eyes. As my holes open, squirt, drool. As my body arches, convulses. As my mouth whimpers, moans. I think about it, feeling embarrassed, and in short order, can’t think at all. All I can do is submit…and feel.

That sudden launching into subspace…brought there via sex and orgasms rather than pain…was startling. Oh. I didn’t know that would happen!

Our time together was short–for a variety of reasons–but of immense quality. This one day a year when He can be here with me in my home, in my spaces, is incredibly precious to me. I hold the memory of His presence here in my heart all year.

 

 

Captivated

She stood, trying not to look bored–no–trying not to be bored, as the photographer paced around the set.  Her clothing was perfect, her hair and make up perfect, though the make up woman dabbed at an imaginary spot on her nose.

Serena inhaled, exhaled. She looked gorgeous, of course, she always did. She examined her nails, and tried to keep impatience at bay. Her Sir was to meet her here shortly and the shoot was taking over-long.

“Phillip, can’t you just take a picture of the shoes and be done with it?”

He straightened up from the boxes he was pawing through, and stalked over to her. An inch from her nose, he stopped, glaring. Refusing to back down she met him, eye to eye.

“You go too far, woman. This is my craft, my art.”

“It’s a picture of shoes.”

He turned on his heel, snapping his finger at his assistant. The poor harried girl dragged the floral hassock across to where the impatient man pointed. That imperious finger turned in Serena’s direction.

“Foot, here.”

Taking a deep breath, she stalked to where Phillip had pointed, lifting her foot to the top. High heels and odd poses didn’t mix, but she had plenty of practice with heels and strange predicament poses, thanks to her Sir’s cruelly inventive mind.

*snap*

“more to the left. No! NO! Naughty girl. Knee to the left, ankle to the right…yes…hold it…”

With a click and a whirr, he took a fast series of shots. Rubbing his hands together  he smiled.

A slow clap, that could only be sarcastic, made them all turn, startled. Her heart fell, then rose to a thumping crescendo. Her Sir stood there.

“Who is this…this…”

“Mr. Renoir, I presume?” He took a fast step forward and shook the perturbed photographers hand.

“This is my girl. And you say she’s been naughty? I think perhaps there is a way to …add an interesting element to your photo’s.”

The photographer had been prepared to verbally lance the intruder, but something in the older man’s stance gave him pause.

“What is it you’re suggesting? Exactly?”

Her mouth opened in shock as her Sir took the photographers arm and led him away, talking low and quietly. That He’d been able to deflect and deflate one of Phillips famous tantrums was a miracle in itself. She felt a bit nervous as they kept glancing at her. Her nipples rose to tight hard peaks, as she instinctively knew He was planning something very devious.

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

Phillip waved his hand in her direction.

“Go. I might like this idea. Let us see.”

Her Sir crossed the room, His smile making her tummy turn over in nervous figure-eights.  In moments He’d taken her hair down from its high bundle of curls, removed her jacket, her shirt, her slacks, until she stood clad only in her black lace bra and panties. Clothing in his hand, he crossed to wardrobe, and came back with a skirt.

Only a skirt.

A very tight, very short skirt.

When she put it on, it barely covered her ass.

“Position One.”

She stared at Him a moment. Reading the implacable gaze, she sank to her knees on the floor, pressed her forehead to His gleaming shoe.  He left her there a minute, two. She felt the blush growing on her cheeks, but her nipples were like the hardest granite.

“Position Two.”

She sat back, knees open, feet flared. The skirt rode high on her upper thighs. He took off his blue tie, draping it around her neck. He pinched each one as he settled the ends of the silk over the nipples that poked through her lacy bra. He stepped away.

The camera whirred, as Phillip took picture after picture. He moved from the tripod, moving around her, never stopping.

“it needs more,”  he muttered.

Sir stepped up in front of her, sliding his foot between her spread thighs. His head turned out of the frame, His fingers buried in her hair, arching her back. He shook her head, mussing her further, then smeared her lipstick with His thumb. Fist once more in her hair, her head was pulled back, exposing her lovely throat, the pulse beating wildly there. She didn’t notice the camera any more, only the growing wetness between her thighs.

“Yes! The best! The best!”

“Stand.” She moved to her feet, quickly. He swatted her ass firmly.

“Bend over and show me that pretty bottom. Turn those toes in a bit, hands on your thighs. Look at me.”

Since He stood behind her, she had to turn her head around. Her curtain of hair hid her tits, tantalizing Phillip.  He’d seen many a boob in his line of work, but the man was creating a living sex doll in front of him. Someone wanton and sensual, and far removed from the polished model who’d stood here minutes ago.

He filled his camera with the images as she moved through the poses, blushing, until he ran out of room in his digital storage device.

“We are done. Magnificent! Bravo! and I thank you, Sir, for your timely intervention. If I had more cards….” he sighed dramatically.

Her Sir smiled.

“Go thank your photographer.”

She didn’t want to ‘thank’ Phillip. She glared for a moment. His brow rose.

“On your knees, then, sashay that naughty ass over and thank him. Properly.”

To argue would add more punishment. She crawled across the floor on her hands and knees, her humiliation knowing no bounds. This was fucking Phillip, for gosh sakes. His eyes were wide, glowing. He’d never seen the like. Oh, he’d heard about that damned book from last summer, the titillating gossip about a movie being made but he’d never imagined the reality of it. He thought she didn’t want to do it…this crawling thing…yet she did it because HE had said so. His cock grew hard, swelling suddenly like a river in a rainstorm.

“Thank you Phillip.” Her voice was husky. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.  She glanced over her shoulder to see Sir leaning, one ankle crossed in front of the other, against the counter where her make up lady had been before Phillip had shooed her away. His assistant was in the corner, mouth agape.  She knew that look on His face. The “you’re not even close to done, slut” look. Closing her eyes and sending a prayer to the universe for a swift ending to this humiliation, she reached up for the photographers zipper.

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

She lay back on the bed, still tingling from their early morning play. He’d been fierce, yanking on her tits, slapping her pussy, fucking her brainless. He’d pussy fucked, then crawled up for her mouth. Back to her pussy for more brutal pounding, until He exploded in her belly.

Sated, they’d teased and kissed and cuddled until He rose from the warm wet nest for His shower. She reached for the fashion magazine that had come in the weekend mail. Thumbing through it she came to an add for Demon Shoes.

The ad.

Her ad.

She looked–ethereal, beautiful, drawing the eye deeper into the photo until they rested on the unmarred perfection of the shoes. Her hands were wrapped around His legs, head tilted back. He stood with His back to the camera, fingers cupping her chin, the blue tie nearly lost in the shadows. Her make-up was smudged, her hair a mess. In fact, the  photo was brilliant for what it didn’t show. No tits. No pussy, only the implication that she’d just gotten a face full of cock. Beneath her body, crouched as she was before Him, the red shoes stood out, but they were very nearly overshadowed by the submissive glow coming from her eyes.

“Captivate her,” she murmured, tracing the line of His back in the photo.

Listening to the sound of the shower in the next room she smiled. Indeed, He had.

 

 

 

 

Cum

It didn’t start with that word in the title.

As in all good stories, there is a beginning, a middle, and an end.  And in true nilla fashion, I’m going to start near the end.

You know, because I can.

“Get on your knees.”

His voice was firm, husky.

“You got yours, now I’m going to get mine.”

My bed is low to the ground. I’ve been on my back, on my belly, leaned over the edge of it…and after several wicked and intense orgasms, was more than a little spaced.

Which way was “off the bed” anyway? Blindfolded, I was lost in a darkness of soft velvety feelings. My body was tingling. There’d been a few good solid whacks with my nemesis, and His hands, and pinching and all those O’s…

His hand took my arm, guiding me.

We are, neither of us, young and nubile. The idea of being thrown to the floor that I read about in other’s blogs, of being drug around the floor by His fist in my hair? That is definitely off the table. I won’t say I flopped on my way down, but it was definitely not elegant, either. Sure, He’ll guide me by His hand in my hair, or tug me and shove me against the wall if we’re in a hotel…but…well, as I said, neither of us are spring chickens.

Still, He firmly guides me to the floor. At the start of things, He’d “taken my hands away”… cuffed and fastened to matching cuffs on my thighs…there was no way to use them to get off that damned bed, nor was there help in holding position, nor in touching or stroking Master’s cock. His legs are strong, and warm, and I use them to find my target, crawling around a bit to find the right place. I can only imagine the smile as He sat there and watched me try to find His cock without my hands, using only my head and mouth to ‘feel’ where I was.

He says nothing. A moan, a grunt, a tug of my hair.

A bit later, He begins the joking that I wrote of in yesterday’s post, written as I was still deeply enthralled in euphoria. The predicament bondage of His hands, my tits, His cock.

Jz wrote about men liking the gag thing as we suck, choke, throw up a little (yeah. Just a little. I hate that part–and me with a belly full of Chinese food.) HE seemed to enjoy that as well.

And later, when He came, His juice filling my mouth, the taste and pleasure of making Him cum with just my mouth? Only added to my euphoria. I love cumming, make no mistake. I love when He pleasures/pains me. When He drains my body.

Even more?

I love pleasing Him.

And in that moment we were both totally sated.

 

His Gifts

Our time together was –dare I say–bliss-filled. He left me giddy, light-headed, sated, glowing. He left me with many gifts.

I wear His scent upon my skin, an olfactory memory of His body lying atop mine, pinning me to the bed.  His fingers probed my pussy, circled my clit, over and over, until I arched and spurted upon my bed.

My hair, a tangled mess, is the gift of His hands as He pulled it up, smoothing it atop my head and into a rough ponytail, holding my head firmly, bobbing my mouth up and down His cock.

Around my lips, a dried ring of semen is a sexual lipstick. A touch of my tongue reminds me that He possessed my mouth, until I drained Him, and drank of His nectar. Sweet and salty, my favorite combination of flavors, all spurting from His cock, my reward for a job well done. We each took a gift from that experience. 🙂

Upon my breasts, bruises from Him reminding me to focus on the task at hand as I sucked Him, giggling. He told little jokes to break my concentration, then grasped and pinched my nipples, my tits as I laughed around His shaft.

Laughter and cocks don’t mix, nilla, He said, then, focus, slut. Cock, not giggles if you please.

And then of course, He made another joke…but His hands on my tits, tight as a vise, make me work hard to press into that pain to get His cock into my mouth again. Predicament bondage at its best; press into the grip of His hands ever harder, in order to get close enough to suck His cock.

My knees remind me, gently sore, of my kneeling between His strong thighs as His penis brushed my lips. Of moving around to retrieve Him when He would move to make me work for it.  My body, achy in many small places are all little gifts that flash me back to each  experience that we had together.

My pussy aches, a dull and sated throb, from His hands, His fingers. Rubbing and teasing, thrusting and filling, slapping. The firm, hard, implacable blows fell after every orgasm–and there were a lot of orgasms.

For now, I am tired and this is all I can say of of time together this weekend–there may be more as my mind settles, and I’m not floating 5 feet above the floor. For now there will be my bed, and the contemplation of all that happened between us this evening.

Swollen, tired, lightly bruised, I am deeply satisfied to have spent this  Saturday evening with Master. Having Him here, in my home, in my bed, filling my room with His presence–and memories to carry me through until next time, well, it is the best gift of all.

 

 

His Fist

finally! my muse has returned from her vacation and I’m flooded with ideas. Some new things, and the finale of the Crystal Dragon story….all things in good time, I guess. Thanks, muse! ~nilla~

His fist, in her hair, pulls her up–down–up the length of his rigid cock. She would recoil, if she could, from the intense scent of piss hiding in the curly, rough, tickly hair where her nose is buried, when his thickness is full in her throat. She can’t swallow, can’t breathe, can’t control the pace of her mouth as he uses her.

He pulls away.

His fist, one on each tit, holds her firmly against the bed, his cock seeking her other warm and wet hole. His thighs spread her legs as he spears deep. She would have arched, if she could, into that fierce thrust, glorying in it, if his fingers, biting into her tender breasts, weren’t holding her in place.

He pulls out.

His fist, gripping around his swollen shaft, pumps steadily. His fingers slide slickly on the pussy-wetted hardness. His eyes are closed, hers, open. Both heads thrown back, hers in teary want, his in joyful denial. The scent of her needy cunt rises to his nose, pushing the flood of semen from the thickness he holds inches from her, spurts across her belly, spurts up to her bruise-marked tits, spurts until there is nothing left but his gasping breath.

He lets go.

Falling onto the bed, onto her, his body rubs his seed into their skin, then rolls to lay beside her. His fist in her hair guides her mouth to the first spot of cum on his chest. Her tongue works across his flesh, down his body, settles finally on his cock.

His fist, in her hair, pulls her up–down–up the length of his rigid cock to begin the dance again.

 

 

Need? or Want?

“Master? I really need an O!”

“Need? I think not, slut. You might *want* an o…but trust me on this….if I decide not to give you one…and odds are that I won’t…you’ll go to bed, sleep, and wake in the morning none the worse for it. If I take away your air? That’s a true need.”

Doms!

and I know this entire conversation just turns you on, doesn’t it?

*massive eye roll, huffs out a breath,  mutters imprecations quietly*

I thought so.   (i can hear the smug smile in His voice)

 

Master Picks the Tits…

I had an idea of a picture I wanted to put up today for HNT, and sent it to Master.

no, I’ll send you this weeks HNT

I blink, staring at my phone. He so rarely does that, you know? *Tells* me what I’ll blog. He may suggest, at times, an idea, or say “this is bloggable, slut” but outright *telling*?

Rare.

I like it. 🙂

So here is Master’s Pick for Half Nekkid Thursday. Enjoy!

masters hnt

 

Sweet Sexy Anticipation

I’m feeling it…that burgeoning of desire that I’ve held in stasis, tight within a chrysalis. It’s hung there, deep inside me, waiting. Slowly growing, sometimes the pressure to burst free just this side of manageable.

I’ve not talked about it overmuch. I’ve spent time here with you, chatting about my hair issues, the little bits of face time we’ve carved out, all the while slowly going mad with desire for this Master of mine. Yes, yes, I know, I’m “His” property, but trust me on this, He is every bit mine as well. And I’ve craved Him, like I used to crave cake with thick frosting. I crave His touch, His attention, the alive feeling He engenders. I long for the smell of His body to rub into my skin, the rough edges of His man body grating against my softer shapes.

I crave, too, the pain. I fear it, I long for it. I want it so much that it’s an ache in my cells.

And somewhere, deep within one of those ‘compartments’ that men seem to be born with, is a matching desire in Master, for me. It’s –humbling– to be the object of desire. He wants to touch me. He wants to make me moan, and whimper. He wants to make me mewl with pain–and pleasure.

He wants to make me cum. (Like a NY harbor fireboat, He says!)

He wants to mark me.

Already He teases me about the fucking pink hairbrush. You know the one…I’ve teased Him about it off and on. I really, really hate that fucking thing…cheeky

It stings…

no…

….it’s way, WAY beyond mere “stingy”…

This fucker packs a whap..a whallop…that steals my breath. It is almost beyond ‘pain’…it covers a wide area of skin and makes me feel….

I can leave it at that, I think. It hurts. It makes me cry, every time. And yet it makes me feel.

Alive.

Glowing with the pain. Getting to the glow is a hard passage. But it makes me fly. Out into the stratosphere, way above the clouds, yet held here on Earth by His implacable voice, the steady thunk of a toy on my skin, or the gentle touch as His hand caresses the welt.

Then there’s that seeking finger, as I sniff my tears back. It probes between my thighs, sliding into my slit, feeling the heat there.

And the wet.

So much wet.

It’s true. Pain turns me on. Pain revvs up my sensual beast. It is the key that unlocks the fucking greedy needy whore inside. Getting there sure isn’t easy, but it is the road I’d rather travel with Him than anyone else.

He’s sent me texts about the hairbrush. About the pleasure and joy it brings to Him, in large part, He reminds me, because  I stupidly gifted it to Him. It wasn’t *meant* to be a gift, mind you. It was a huge relief to finally find a brush that could handle the massive “master hair mess” that I got after every meet. He absolutely destroys my careful coif, mussing me up so that I look like I styled it with a blender. I’ve gone through multiple brushes, combs, what have you. Finding the paddle brush was a dream come true! It whipped through the worst tangles in moments…

I was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Look what I found Master! Isn’t it neat?” I  held up the gleaming pink monster, innocently unaware of what was about to transpire.

Apparently He had never really listened to my complaints about my tangled tresses and how long they took to comb out before I went home. But His eyes lit up when I showed Him that fucking brush. It has a squishy handle. He slipped it out of my hand, flipping it around in His palm.

And it was only *then* that I realized exactly what I’d done. I’d just delivered a weapon of ass destruction to a sadist. Seriously, stupidly, the thought that He could/would/might use this on my ass?

Never occurred to me.

Hey, I have these blonde moments from time to time. I was born blonde you know.

“Turn over,” He says, clenching the squishy handle. “I like this.”

I don’t remember what happened next.

What?

You don’t believe me?

Okay, okay.

It’s indelibly scribed on my brain. He hit me with it.

Right on my ass.

And laughed.

He was so fucking delighted. I am now the official caretaker of the pink brush. Nothing can happen to it. It sits on my dresser where I see it every day.

Every day.

And I remember the kiss of that fucker, like a viper on my skin. My tits, my ass, arms, legs, belly…no area is “safe” from the thing.

I sent him a text on Tuesday, told Him the brush had hopped a train.

He ignored me.

Later, He sent me a  sweet and sadistic text about using it on me. A text that made my toes curl with dread and longing…and made my pussy swell and dampen.

Damn He knows exactly how to prime my pump.