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My hands are too small to fit around peoples’ throats.

It’s been proven.

Even when I’m Pretty, I’m still a teensy bit Little.

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“I kissed her. Kissing is more intimate than fucking. That’s why I never liked my girlfriends to go around kissing men. I’d rather they fucked them.” – Charles Bukowski, Women.

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Game over? Really now? Are you sure?

Because, in my house, this is just about when the games begin.

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Trapped, Part 1

It was a trap.

The lights were out in his bedroom. I was three steps in, hand over the switch, when he grabbed me from behind. I gasped as one of his hands twisted my arm up on my back and he nudged me against the wall with his knee. He pressed himself against me and his other hand wandered upwards, grabbing my face between his fingers and forcing my lips to purse. His breath was hot against my neck and the light scruff below his lips tickled my skin as he spoke in a voice that gave away his grin.

“Hi there, pretty girl." 

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I absolutely love breathplay. I love that swimmy little headspace you get into when your head starts to get light and things just border on a bit dangerous. I love the risk involved. I love the surrender. 

But, I feel terrible for my partners sometimes. It’s a terribly risky game to play and I see them trying to maintain some sort of happy medium between going too light and going too hard. I don’t mean in any way that they’ve wanted to strangle the living shit out of me, but it is hard to curb it once you really get started and it’s also very difficult to push yourself further without worrying about the police report.