It's impossible to not write here right now because if I don't write here right now, nothing else of worth will get done, so don't mind me, just go about your business and ignore this piece of dirty writing.
It all began yesterday afternoon. Well, no, it all began yesterday morning when I was given one of those spankings that are given for my own good. We call them 'sensory integration spankings'. Then, some use; a lovely breakfast out. We slowed right down after that and I sat down with my tumblr scroll. I was allowing the photographs to roll down in front of me, looking for something juicy when, lo and behold, there before me was the full version of the film, 'The Story of O'. I didn't move for the next hour and half. It's very old now but it still takes me places that I adore.
The first time I saw it, and I haven't seen it since that day, I was about 16 and when I came home, alone in my bed, my body climaxed in a way it never had before. Of course, I must have read the story hundreds of times since then, but watching it on the screen was really something else again.
I used to wonder about this desire of some men to loan out a woman to other men. I had trouble totally comprehending what they saw in this but I think I see it now. What complete ownership of a woman is this that he decides that another man may have her for an evening, or even for a few minutes, because he has deemed that he may do so; that he is in such possession of her that he is comfortable that she will accept his command and that she will return to him afterwards. She does what he says to do, comfortable in the decision because she is that at peace in being owned by him.
I slept well; don't think I dreamed. However, upon waking I could feel my body on fire. I've been told that my fantasy life doesn't mean all that much. After all, it is I that controls the fantasy. Yes, I get that, but I still enjoy my fantasies a great deal; still get a lot of succor from them.
It went like this. I was owned by another one of those faceless men. I couldn't tell you if he was blond or dark, tall or short (although he did have a particularly long and thick cock...), only that he was my owner and that when he gave a direction, I complied. It was early Saturday morning when he told me that it was to be a weekend of silence and that I was not to look at him. There was no argument over this at all. Our agreement was such that he directed, I complied.
Since it was to be a quiet weekend, it became a weekend of catching up on paperwork for him. He had me kneel by his side at his desk, naked, close enough that he could touch me at any time. He had a penchant for the riding crop that weekend, and as he laid it over my bare rump, three times each day (he had a tendency to be methodical and ritualistic), he would comment on how much he loved to see the marks, and how proud I must be to wear those marks of ownership.
Although I could not utter a word, and he put the ball gag in while whipping me to ensure that no words left my mouth, he spoke to me almost non-stop, telling me how beautiful I looked and how pleased he was with me. He caressed my body, told me often how delightful it was to see my asscunt stretched out by the big plug. In fact, he kept it in nearly constantly, only taking it out to wash me and to allow me to empty out, only to return it to stretch out the hole again overnight. He used me after a bath, and before he returned the plug, by the way, because that was convenient and that way his semen could slowly leak out. He told me that the plug was an extension of him and since he could not always be inside me, the plug took his place.
I remember him washing me particularly. He did it tenderly and I particularly remember feeling so proud of my status as the white washcloth gently was rubbed over my rings of ownership that were through my nipples and my pussy lips. I remember feeling beautiful. I remember feeling very happy and very deeply at peace. I rejoiced in it all; even the pain.
As you can imagine, by the end of the fantasy (and there's a lot more detail since these fantasies can go on for a good hour) I was soaked in sweat. The silk nightie I was wearing was wet and sweat dripped from my face; was through my hair. Okay, it's just a fantasy. I controlled it. But, boy, did I ever have fun scripting it. Now, it's onto other thoughts, I hope.
It all began yesterday afternoon. Well, no, it all began yesterday morning when I was given one of those spankings that are given for my own good. We call them 'sensory integration spankings'. Then, some use; a lovely breakfast out. We slowed right down after that and I sat down with my tumblr scroll. I was allowing the photographs to roll down in front of me, looking for something juicy when, lo and behold, there before me was the full version of the film, 'The Story of O'. I didn't move for the next hour and half. It's very old now but it still takes me places that I adore.
The first time I saw it, and I haven't seen it since that day, I was about 16 and when I came home, alone in my bed, my body climaxed in a way it never had before. Of course, I must have read the story hundreds of times since then, but watching it on the screen was really something else again.
I used to wonder about this desire of some men to loan out a woman to other men. I had trouble totally comprehending what they saw in this but I think I see it now. What complete ownership of a woman is this that he decides that another man may have her for an evening, or even for a few minutes, because he has deemed that he may do so; that he is in such possession of her that he is comfortable that she will accept his command and that she will return to him afterwards. She does what he says to do, comfortable in the decision because she is that at peace in being owned by him.
I slept well; don't think I dreamed. However, upon waking I could feel my body on fire. I've been told that my fantasy life doesn't mean all that much. After all, it is I that controls the fantasy. Yes, I get that, but I still enjoy my fantasies a great deal; still get a lot of succor from them.
It went like this. I was owned by another one of those faceless men. I couldn't tell you if he was blond or dark, tall or short (although he did have a particularly long and thick cock...), only that he was my owner and that when he gave a direction, I complied. It was early Saturday morning when he told me that it was to be a weekend of silence and that I was not to look at him. There was no argument over this at all. Our agreement was such that he directed, I complied.
Since it was to be a quiet weekend, it became a weekend of catching up on paperwork for him. He had me kneel by his side at his desk, naked, close enough that he could touch me at any time. He had a penchant for the riding crop that weekend, and as he laid it over my bare rump, three times each day (he had a tendency to be methodical and ritualistic), he would comment on how much he loved to see the marks, and how proud I must be to wear those marks of ownership.
Although I could not utter a word, and he put the ball gag in while whipping me to ensure that no words left my mouth, he spoke to me almost non-stop, telling me how beautiful I looked and how pleased he was with me. He caressed my body, told me often how delightful it was to see my asscunt stretched out by the big plug. In fact, he kept it in nearly constantly, only taking it out to wash me and to allow me to empty out, only to return it to stretch out the hole again overnight. He used me after a bath, and before he returned the plug, by the way, because that was convenient and that way his semen could slowly leak out. He told me that the plug was an extension of him and since he could not always be inside me, the plug took his place.
I remember him washing me particularly. He did it tenderly and I particularly remember feeling so proud of my status as the white washcloth gently was rubbed over my rings of ownership that were through my nipples and my pussy lips. I remember feeling beautiful. I remember feeling very happy and very deeply at peace. I rejoiced in it all; even the pain.
As you can imagine, by the end of the fantasy (and there's a lot more detail since these fantasies can go on for a good hour) I was soaked in sweat. The silk nightie I was wearing was wet and sweat dripped from my face; was through my hair. Okay, it's just a fantasy. I controlled it. But, boy, did I ever have fun scripting it. Now, it's onto other thoughts, I hope.
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