Erotic.

Stuck.

Your cock choked and purple at attention in my warm hand, beautifully bound with a wide, golden ribbon, wrapped with a bow.  Your gift to me.

How I yearn for its obedience and your loss of control which I catch on the wind as you set it free.  I collect it like so many wild flowers on a morning walk, my pile of power a sumptuous, heady fragrance.

I look back over my shoulder at you, wriggle down on your hips, clasp your throbbing meat in my hands and slowly milk you.  Long, friendly strokes, light slaps, a tug on your bulbous scrotum.

Your cries caress my ears, your semen spurts dutifully into my hands, my smile curves upon my lips. The leather around your wrists groans with the strain of your body arching into its ecstasy. Just like I wanted you to.

Mm.

I hope to continue my travels along the lanky lines of your body, the pale valleys and cut ridges, the tender spots of your emotional domain.

I’ll miss you while you’re gone.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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