“I… I want to show you my pussy,” she repeats, kicking her panties off and spreading her legs to display her cunt. She smiles, but there’s a faintly worried undertone to it, like deep down she’s afraid that she doesn’t know how to stop. The pleasure coursing through her every time she obeys is so intense, so powerful that she doesn’t think she has a choice anymore. She can’t not be happy when she’s staring blankly into the distance and playing with her full, heavy tits for the man standing next to the couch. The joy is invading her brain, carrying her along with it. She’s being swept along by the force of it now. And she doesn’t know where it’s going to end.
He speaks again. She doesn’t hear him; her head is ringing with pleasure too loudly to notice speech. She feels like a tuning fork that’s been struck and touched to a hard surface, filled with a pure and constant vibration that resonates through every atom of her being. All she knows is that she responds easily and effortlessly, reciting the words, “I want to be fucked into obedience”, as if they came from her own head. They didn’t. Nothing in her head belongs to her anymore. She can’t even be upset about it. There’s no room for anger or fear in her brain–they’ve simply been pushed out.
She can sense the space where they were. There’s a quiet gap in her head that has the shape of terror–she can feel the edges where the understanding should go, the knowledge that yes, a stranger was waiting for her when she came home and yes, he told her to look into his eyes and feel her mind bending to his will, and yes, she hasn’t been able to resist doing anything he’s said no matter how lewd and lascivious and depraved. She can feel the echoes of fear as her brain tries to grapple with the fact that she’s doing things that should frighten her. But every time she tries to get a grip on it, it just… slides away. She should be afraid of that too, but…
She realizes that she’s disassociating, reducing herself to a passenger in her own consciousness as she stares at the ceiling and repeats, “I want to feel you inside my cunt.” She’s thinking less and less about less and less, her mind simply whiting out for longer and longer stretches as his fingers disappear inside her pussy and his words disappear inside her mind. How long has she been like this? What does the passage of time feel like anymore? The pleasure is making time stretch and distend like melting taffy, until she feels her mind sagging and softening into the gaps in her own awareness. She can’t stop staring. She can’t stop smiling.
“I want to s-stop thinking,” she groans, her hips rolling up into his thrusting fingers, and she knows that it’s becoming more and more true with every passing moment. The sliver of consciousness that’s aware of the manipulation of her thoughts and her will is attenuating more and more as he pours his power into her, the plastic blankness in her mind becoming less and less artificial and more her state of being. Her thoughts are seizing up, setting like gelatin until the blankness becomes who she is. Her head feels like it’s hollowing out like a doll, until she’s poseable and pliable and. And.
“I don’t need to think anymore,” she says, her eyes settling into a glassy, unfocused stare. Her smile freezes in perfect plastic bliss. And at last, she gives in and comes.
If I can be honest: I wasn’t even aware of how much of his hand was inside me at that point. Just that at least a pretty sizeable majority of it was, and that it felt strange and good and somehow a little bit like an accomplishment.
D withdrew his hand to roll me over onto my back, leaving me empty a moment before easing his fingers in once more. “Look at you, little one,” he taunted, something akin to mirth shining in his eyes. “Going back to a hotel with a bad man and letting him do this to you.”
I was perhaps a little embarrassed at how easily my body was yielding to his hand. At how pliant I could be made by hands that had never even touched me before. But he was right, I had gone back with him to his hotel room and taken off all of my clothes. I had let him tie me up, spread me with a speculum and then with his own hand, all without betraying much of his composure at all.
Early on, I’d rubbed him briefly through his pants while he kissed my neck, back when I was still dressed and unencumbered. But since, save for a moment or two where I bit down on his fingers in my mouth, I had been made just to receive. Which was, as it turned out, its own form of domination. One that I had come to realize I actually enjoyed.
We laid in his bed when it was over, chatting idly until my head stopped swimming. He’d untied me and my wrists were still looped in the vague indentations left by the ropes. It feels strange to say that he was gentle in the aftermath when in some infinitely frustrating but impossibly hot way, he’d basically been gentle the whole time.
But nonetheless, he pulled my jacket on for me and smoothed my hair off of my face. In the lobby of the hotel, he fetched me a lollipop from the front desk. Outside, we waited on the curb for the Lyft I called to arrive. I stood, sucking the lollipop and holding D’s hand. And I felt both incredibly small and – really – rather grown up.
“we didn’t know any better,” the crewman says, and swallows, presenting the chest to the captain. “what do we do now?”
“kill it,” the captain says, but the ice is melting in his eyes.
“we can’t,” the first mate says desperately, praying she won’t have to fight her captain on this. “we can’t. we – i won’t. we won’t.”
“i know.”
x
“daddy,” she says, floating in a tub of seawater in the hold, “daddy, la-la, la-la-la.”
her voice rings like bells. her accent is strange; her mouth isn’t made for human words. it mesmerises even the hardiest amongst them and she wasn’t even trying. the crew has taken to diving for shellfish near the shorelines for her; she loves them, splitting the shells apart with strength seen in no human toddler, slurping down the slimy molluscs inside and laughing, all plump brown cheeks and needle-sharp teeth. she sometimes splashes them for fun with her smooth, rubbery brown tail. even when they get soaked they laugh. they love her.
“daddy,” she calls again, and he can hear the worry in her voice. the storm rocking the ship is harsh and uncaring, and if they go down, she would be the only survivor.
“don’t worry,” he says, and goes over, sitting next to the tub. the first mate, leaning against the wall, pretends not to notice as he quietly begins to sing.
x
“father,” she says, one day, as she leans on the edge of the dock and the captain sits next to her, “why am I here?”
“your mother abandoned you,” he says, as he always has. “we found you adrift, and couldn’t bear to leave you there.”
she picks at the salt-soaked boards, uncertain. her hair is pulled back in a fluffy black puff, the white linen holding it slipping almost over one of her dark eyes. one of her first tattoos, a many-limbed kraken, curls over her right shoulder and down her arm, delicate tendrils wrapped around her calloused fingertips. “alright,” she says.
x
“why am I really here?” she asks the first mate, watching the sun set over the water in streaks of liquid metal that pooled in the troughs of the waves and glittered on the seafoam.
“we didn’t know any better,” the first mate says, staring into the water. “we didn’t know- we didn’t know anything. we didn’t understand why she fought so viciously to guard her treasure. we could not know she protected something a thousand times more precious than the purest gold.”
she wants to be furious, but she can’t. she already knew the answer, from reading the guilt in her father’s eyes and the empty space in her own history. and she can’t hate her family.
“it’s alright,” she says. “i do have a family, anyways. i don’t think i would have liked my other life near as much.”
x
her kraken grows, spreading its tendrils over her torso and arms. she grows too, too large to come on board the ship without being hauled up in a boat from the water. she sings when the storms come and swims before the ship to guide it to safety. she fights off more than one beast of the seas, and gathers a set of scars across her back that she bears with pride. “i don’t mind,” she says, when the captain fusses over her, “now i match all of you.”
the first time their ship is threatened, really threatened, is by another fleet. a friend turned enemy of the first mate. “we shouldn’t fight him,” she says, peering through the spyglass.
“why not?” the mermaid asks.
“he’ll win,” the first mate says.
the mermaid tips her head sideways. Her eyes, dark as the deep waters, gleam in the noon light. “are you sure?” she asks.
x
the enemy fleet surrenders after the flagship is sunk in the night, the anchor ripped off the ship and the planks torn off the hull. the surviving crew, wild-eyed and delirious, whimper and say a sea serpent came from the water and attacked them, say it was longer than the boat and crushed it in its coils. the first mate hears this and has to hide her laughter. the captain apologizes to his daughter for doubting her.
“don’t worry,” she says, with a bright laugh, “it was fun.”
x
the second time, they are pushed by a storm into a royal fleet. they can’t possibly fight them, and they don’t have the time to escape.
“let me up,” the mermaid urges, surfacing starboard and shouting to the crew. “bring me up, quickly, quickly.”
they lower the boat and she piles her sinous form into it, and uses her claws to help the crew pull her up. once on the deck she flops out of the boat and makes her way over to the bow. the crew tries to help but she’s so heavy they can barely lift parts of her.
she crawls up out in front of the rail and wraps her long webbed tail around the prow. the figurehead has served them well so far but they need more right now. she wraps herself around the figurehead and raises her body up into the wind takes a breath of the stinging salt air and sings.
the storm carries her voice on its front to the royal navy. they are enchanted, so stunned by her song that they drop the rigging ropes and let the tillers drift. the pirates sail through the center of the fleet, trailing the storm behind them, and by the time the fleet has managed to regain its senses they are buried in wind and rain and the pirates are gone.
x
she declines guns. instead she carries a harpoon and its launcher, and uses them to board enemy ships, hauling her massive form out of the water to coil on the deck and dispatch enemies with ruthless efficiency. her family is feared across all the sea.
x
“you know we are dying,” the captain says, looking down at her.
she floats next to the ship, so massive she could hold it in her arms. her eyes are wise.
“i know,” she says, “i can feel it coming.”
the first mate stands next to the captain. she never had a lover or a child, and neither did he, but to the mermaid they are her parents. she will always love her daughter. the tattoos are graven in dark swirls across the mermaid’s deep brown skin and the flesh of her tail, even spiraling onto the spiked webbing on her spine and face. her hair is still tied back, this time with a sail that could not be patched one last time.
“we love you,” the first mate says simply, looking down. her own tightly coiled black hair falls in to her face; she shakes the locs out of the way and smiles through her tears. the captain pretends he isnt crying either.
“i love you too,” the mermaid says, and reached up to pull the ship down just a bit, just to hold them one last time.
“guard the ship,” the captain says. “you always have but you know they’re lost without you.”
“without you,” the mermaid corrects, with a shrug that makes waves. “what will we do?”
“i don’t know,” the captain says. “but you’ll help them, won’t you?”
“of course i will,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “i will always protect my family.”
x
the captain and the first mate are gone. the ship has a new captain, young and fearless – of the things she can afford to disregard. she fears and loves the ocean, as all captains do. she does not fear the royal fleet. and she does not fear the mermaid.
“you know, i heard stories about you when i was a little girl,” she says, trailing her fingers in the water next to the dock.
the mermaid stares at her with one eye the size of a dinner table. “is that so?” she hums, smirking with teeth sharper than the swords of the entire navy.
“they said you could sink an entire fleet and that you had skin tougher than dragon scales,” the new captain says, grinning right back at the monster who could eat her without a moment’s hesitation. “i always thought they were telling tall tales.”
“and now?”
“they were right,” the new captain says. “how did they ever befriend you?”
the mermaid smiles, fully this time, her dark eyes gleaming under the white linen sail. “they didn’t know any better.”
Oh yes? Not a big girl right now? It’s not like being… young, for me. Just small.
Like something I could hold in my hand? Yes, Mister.
Like I’m doing right now. Yes, Mister.
Do you feel safe here? Uh huh.
Do you feel all used up? All worn out? … Maybe.
Or do you think you can take a little more? A little more what?
Oh, so you are coming back to yourself a little. Maybe. Mister.
“Maybe.” Well. Maybe I want to do a little something you won’t bounce back from so fast. Maybe I want you to be thinking about this for a long time. Uh uh.
You think I won’t? Or you think I can’t? I dunno.
Maybe I want you to beg before I let you leave this room. I bet you can’t make me.
Guess we’ll have to see how much more you can deal with, then, won’t we?
Your wife changes her hair color every season and her personality adjusts slightly. You’re secretly only in love with Autumn wife. She just came home sporting her Winter color.
it’s my fault. it’s just that when we met it was autumn; her red-orange hair and crackling laughter. there’s a little spooky in her, a lot of play. and what a better time for falling?
i didn’t realize it for the first few years – something shifting, something so subtle. the winter makes us all cold, the summer makes us all a little out of our minds. i just loved her, because she was incredible, and i was the luckiest person alive.
it’s just that i realized that spring came with sudden bursts of cold. it’s just that summer frequently raged in with fire sprouting from her lips. it’s just that winter was the worst of all, her eyes dead. it’s just that autumn loves me different; throws herself into it without the clingy sweat of summer. i used to love that summer girl, you know? i loved how wild she was, the way in summer she took every risk she could. but i carried her home drunk one too many times, cleaned up one too many of the messes she made for no reason than to enjoy the sensation of burning. and winter was worse; the shutdown, the isolation. how she became distant, a blizzard, caught up in her own head, unable to tell me what was wrong and unable to think i actually wanted to listen.
she comes home, her hair bleached white. a dark smile on her lips. the shadowy parts of her are back. they loom like icicles overhead. she kisses me with her body held at a distance, a peck on my cheek that feels like an iceberg. she makes polite conversation and we go to bed early, our bodies untouching.
it is a lonely season, i think on the ninth day of this. winter is cold. winter is known for the death of things. when i look at her, i see the girl i fell for, inhabited by an alien. she was the first women i loved so much i felt it would kill me. i can’t leave. when i wake her up with my crying, she tells me to shush and go back to sleep. she’s different like this, quiet, doesn’t eat.
three days later i stare at myself in the mirror. i wonder if it’s me. if the fat on my body or something in my face or the wrinkles and she doesn’t love me. i try prettier lingerie, lean cuisine, i try different hair, more makeup, try harder. it doesn’t work. she looks at me the same; that empty gaze that neither loves nor condemns my actions.
somewhere in februrary i lose it. we’re fighting again, from car to restaurant to car to home again. we fight about stupid things, small things; i tell her i feel she doesn’t love me, she says i’m not listening. the circle goes around and around, old pain peeling back, new pain unhealing. i sleep on the couch.
i wake up when i hear her crying, white hair around her all messed up. the kind of sobbing that only comes at two in the morning, heavy and thick and hurting. my winter girl. my heart is breaking. she looks up at me like i’m her anchor. “i’m sorry i’m like this,” she says. and i start saying, it’s okay i’m here we’re married, but she just shakes her head and says, “I know this isn’t the real me.”
i hold her cold hand. she stares at the blankets. “i am different in winter,” she whispers, “i know i am and i’m sorry.” she looks at me. “why do you think i dye my hair? cut it off? get rid of the old me?”
i tell her it’s okay. we’re together and it’s okay, and then she whispers, “i’m sorry you married four of me.”
we lay there like that, her head on my chest. she falls asleep. i stare at the ceiling, thinking of the way she sounded when she was crying. how i helped put her in that pain. how i promised in sickness and in health and everything in between.
the next day i spend at the library. there aren’t enough books on how to love someone with seasonal affective disorder so i make my own, notes and pages and little ideas on post-its. and i take a deep breath and make myself a promise.
she comes home to her favorite dinner and we kiss and she’s uneasy but that’s okay. the next day i bring home flowers and the next day she finds little love notes in her pockets. i love her quiet, the way winter demands, understand her sex drive is faltering; spend more time just cuddling. we drink wine and we kiss and some part of her starts relaxing.
the truth is there is no loving someone out of their mental illness. the truth is that you can love someone in despite of it; love them loud enough to give them an excuse to believe they can make their way out of it.
and i learn. i remember the rebirth of spring, when she starts thawing. we kiss and have picnics in pretty dresses. i remember her joy at little birds and her rain dancing. i fall in love with the flowers in her cheeks and the little bursts of cleaning. i fall in love with summer’s slow walks and milkshakes and shouting to music playing too loud on the speakers. i fall in love with her dancing, with the sunfire energy. and when winter comes; i am ready. i remember that snow used to look pretty. i fall in love with the hearth of her, with the holiday, with the slow smile that spreads across her face so shyly. i fall in love with how she looks in boots and mittens and every day i find another reason to love her the way she deserves – they way i always should have.
she comes home with her white hair and dark smile and a package in her hands. i ask to see what it is and that small shy grin comes creeping out. it’s a sunlamp packed in with medication. she looks at me with those wide eyes and that beautiful winter blush. “i’m trying to get better,” she whispers, “i promise.”
recovery doesn’t look immediate. sometimes it isn’t neat. i can’t say we never fight or that we’re suddenly complete. but each day, that tiny girl’s strength gives me another reason. i love her. i love her while she tames the roller coaster of spring; i love her for reigning in the summer storms; i love her for taking her winter and trying to be warm. it is hard, because everything worth it is hard. she spreads out her autumn leaves; mixes the best parts of her into everything. learns to take winter’s silence for a moment before yelling in summer. learns to take autumn’s spice and give it to spring. we are both learning.
one day she comes home and her hair is different, but it’s a style i don’t know. i kiss it and tell her that she’s beautiful and the inside of me swells like a flood. i’m so glad that she’s mine. every part of her. the whole. i am the luckiest person on earth. and i always have been. but she’s hugging me and saying, “thank you for helping me,” and i can’t explain why i’m crying.
this is what love is; not always an emotion but rather your actions. the choices we make when we realize our lives would be empty if the other was absent. this is what love is: letting them grow, helping them find their way in out of the cold. this is what love is: sometimes it takes work to see how the thing you planted together actually grows.
this is what love looks like in an autumn girl: it is winter and she glows.
Date a girl who has seen the end of your relationship. She has seen how it burns down into ashes, to be blown away like nothing was ever there.
Date a girl who loves you anyway.
You both happily marry and live on in marital bliss for the rest of your lives. Eventually, though, as is inevitable for all living things, your health begins to deteriorate with age, and you die peacefully in your sleep. There was no sadness upon hearing the news of your death, everyone knew it was time, and you had made peace with the world.
Many years earlier, you had made your final wishes known, and planned your cremation. You never liked the idea of being locked in a box six feet underground for the rest of eternity and especially disliked the idea of being pumped full of harsh and harmful chemicals, at high expense for your family.
The service was lovely, and your family and friends gathered in your home to tell stories about you and remember your life. Your friends and family then piled into your niece’s car and drove to the funeral home. People thought it was strange that your wife requested that she be able to be there when the cremation was to begin and that she be able to light the machine, but accepted it nonetheless. She saw it as a sort of final goodbye, a brief, personal way to send you off onto the next leg of your eternal journey, sending the atoms of your body back into the earth to create more beautiful things.
As she pushed that button and said her goodbyes, she remembered that she had seen the relationship end like this, in flames, crumbling into ash, and was glad that she decided to continue your relationship, realizing that both of you had become better people because of each other’s companionship.
Later on your wife decides to scatter some of your ashes in the garden near the flowers and trees that you had lovingly cultivated together, the fragments of your ashes floating away, off to create beautiful things for the entire human race.
Every weekday morning, my bus to work passes the hotel D took me to. I’ll look up and, subconsciously, shift a little in my seat. It’s almost become a part of my commute now, seeing the hotel and remembering being spread open, being made small and helpless. I have felt myself become wet before, the sharpness of my memory manufacturing another sort of Pavlovian drooling entirely. It wasn’t some sleazy hourly motel. Inevitably, I’ll see professionals in neatly pressed suits with their efficient black suitcases rolling along on the pavement behind them. Not to say that it was particularly swanky either. But I suppose my point here is that when I pass the hotel, I realize that I am perhaps the first and only person to have ejected a speculum onto its sheets.
The vibrations that had taken me over the edge were intense. At first, the speculum had rattled inside me when D lowered the head of the wand to the implement’s base. But I suppose I had clenched around it, because once it was still it was like a column of vibration, like something drilling into the earth. It went so deep that I nearly saw white. I don’t remember if I gave any cue that I was cumming – it’s become routine now for me to have to ask for it with partners – but I was before I knew it.
Afterwards, I had managed to steady my breathing. For whatever reason, over the past couple of years, I’ve been getting really good – if you can even call it a skill – at orgasming vaginally without clitoral stimulation. However, it’s often not nearly as intense. But my body doesn’t hold itself to its own rules. There’s this feeling that I get when I orgasm this way, like something in my head’s shifted just slightly and then something – endorphins? – is freed to rush out. Like twisting the kink out of a garden hose to release the pent up water. It’s more localized in my head than it is anywhere else in my body. But the feeling still lingered this time, made every part of me still feel alight and coiled. Even my clit was still tingling when I heard D switch the vibrator back on.
So I flinched at the idea of having more stimulation applied to it. I clenched up. And that’s when I felt the speculum slip out and found the telltale heat of shame crawling up the back of my neck.
”Ivy, we are going to finish this examination,“ I heard D say over the scrape of the speculum being closed. “Even if I have to bend you over the bed and insert it that way. Do you understand?”
I whined, but nodded nonetheless. The truth was that I was relieved to feel the speculum slide back inside me. I wanted it there, had missed the feeling of being held open almost immediately after the speculum had been pushed out. For as vulnerable and exposed as it made me feel, it also felt really, really good. This time it wasn’t nearly as cold, and it slid home almost effortlessly. I wasn’t sure if he’d reapplied lube or if I was just that wet.
"Are you going to be a good girl and keep it in this time?” D asked, not waiting for my reply before he lowered the head of the wand to just above the hood of my clit. When D turned the vibrator on, I sucked in an inhale so sharply that it stung the arc of my hard palate.
D focused almost entirely on my clit this time, bringing me up near the point of orgasm before withdrawing once I neared the peak. A few minutes later, he’d done it again. Then again. Then again. Each time the window constricting slightly, even as he managed to get me closer and closer to plunging over with each edge. Soon, I was trembling, I was barely coming down between them. D was dragging the kind of cries out of me that scraped my throat raw as he worked me up and then withdrew, wordlessly, over and over.
For a while, it all blurred together. I don’t remember if I begged or not. I don’t remember when he withdrew the speculum. I recall being told to hold the vibrator against my clit by trapping it between my bent knees, but my legs quaked too hard for me to keep it still, even after two attempts and a sharp slap to my thigh. And I don’t even remember if he ever let me cum and, if so, how many times he did, though he must have. Because when he removed the bandage from my eyes, the room was for a moment soft and swollen. I felt like I was floating despite the heaviness in my limbs.
D had lain down beside me on the bed. As I blinked my vision back to steadiness, he pulled me into him. We’d take a break, he explained. He wasn’t done with me yet. “But I’m going to keep you just like this for a moment,” he murmured against my skin. “I want you to stay right here."
It’s a collection of warm holes, then—a gathering of openings or gashes, with the spark of intuition used as nothing more than a defense mechanism.
Honestly, I was unnervingly quiet. I was actually doing okay. I mean, I’d done much worse at this game.
But I’d gotten lucky, really: the way I was bent over, the way he had pinned me, made it so I could barely breathe.
The loudest sound I could even make was a pathetic wheeze.
That wasn’t any fun for him, though.
Where was the entertainment if I wasn’t struggling? If he didn’t see me suffer?
We can’t talk much during the quiet game. But it’s not like we need to talk.
What I’m saying is that after so many years, a touch or look—more than enough direction.
So he slid his hands up my sweater. He gripped my shoulders, reared back.
This meant arch your back.
I pretended I didn’t understand, and his right hand slid up into my hair in response: gripped, pulled, summoned tiny power surges of pain, thumbtack sharp.
I arched then, of course, and the pressure decreased almost instantly.
He’d got what he wanted, where he wanted.
So I collapsed, this little kaleidoscope stellar-mass blackhole. Just like he wanted.
He slid to the exact spot that makes me cry, a razor-tipped butterfly rushing from my tummy to my throat, into my brain.
That spot must feel like something to his cock.
Because he always makes this noise—a grunt, but not quite. Coming from somewhere low in his chest, but with his gut behind it. It makes my spine ache.
It makes all of me ache.
The tears came then, came first. Then, I came. And I came again. And again. Until there was the squeeze of his fingers at the nape of my neck—he was happy. No, pleased.
On Saturday night I had a date with @fresh-bite. There were no real plans as to what was gonna happen. We talked about how tired we both were. And I’d been beaten up a lot the night before by some man who makes me ask for it, so I was pretty set on physical abuse and pain. So the mean cutie and I were going to catch up, cuddle, eat dinner and drink wine. Loungy sleep over plans are excellent kinds of plans, but the night didn’t go that way.
When she came over she sat in one of my high backed kitchen chairs and I grumbled about the week I’d had. She came bearing gifts. Sparkling rosé went in the fridge and I closed my eyes as I was presented with a lovely robe that you all haven’t seen and a pretty pretty nightgown that you have seen. After gifts she had me sit at her feet, where I got to complain a little more but also be petted. I leaned my head into her knees and snuggled. I love being on the floor and feeling cared for and listened to. It feels peaceful. Sometime during this we ordered dinner. Then I tried on my gifts.
She fussed over me and adjusted straps and I stood still and huffed a bit. But I was very good on the whole. Then back to her feet I went. “Do you see the boots I’m wearing?” I nodded. “Do you remember texting me about them? And how you think about them a lot?” I couldn’t look her in the eye. If you’ve been paying attention here you’ll know I have feelings about boots. “I want you to hump them” I think I shook my head but opened my legs. I was so embarrassed but there I was humping her boots, she pressed them into me and I whimpered. “Lift the skirt so I can see, and look at me when you cum” I think I came immediately when she said that. I tried my best to follow directions and look at her but I couldn’t hold her gaze because of my feelings and because I always close my eyes when I cum, I’m working on it. I stopped but she pressed harder into my cunt “Keep going baby, don’t you want to hump Daddy’s boots?” And shortly after I was coming again. She took a picture, the shiny boots looked slick and sticky and I had to lick them clean on my hands and knees.
The food we’d ordered arrived and Daddy pushed me to the ground while she answered the door. It’s a direct line from the door of my apartment to the chair she’d been sitting and while I knew she wouldn’t let the delivery person see me on the floor, I still felt nervous.
