Jim came home from work, to find the apartment totally dark. He called out for Tina, but she did not respond. Jim had moved to turn on the light, but a voice stopped him.
“Don’t turn that on.” Tina told him from the darkness.
“Damn, You scared the hell out of me. Why didn’t you answer when I called?” Jim asked, while sitting his coat on the couch.
“I have my reasons.” She replied as she walked toward him.
Jim couldn’t make out what she was
While washing dishes in the sink, I didn’t hear him come in over the rush of water. Suddenly there was a press of a warm body against my back with strong hands encircling my waist, reaching up to catch my breasts.
“Miss me?” He breathed into my ear, tickling.
I groaned as he began to unbutton my shirt. Once unbuttoned, he pushed up my bra and began to tug and twist on my nipples.
Pinned with my arms underneath his, the only thing I was able to do was to wiggle and push my ass
I’d always known I might be arrested some day, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a criminal. I was doing something patriotic. But the people in charge of things disagreed.
That can be a problem.
In those days I was running the newspaper from a little dressmaking shop in Tull.
I worked the shop in the mornings, cutting and draping and stitching gowns for Tull’s most fashionable ladies, and in return I got three squares and a bed in the
We hadn’t talked in a couple days and even though we were just meeting for a drink I was a bit nervous. We’d met on alt life a dating site geared towards BDSM and found that we shared many of the same fetishes. A few emails quickly turned into many and it seemed like an alright time to get together face to face.
Feeling my phone buzz I looked down and saw the text. I made my way to a small booth in the back of the bar and found her waiting.
She looked so unassuming, innocent, and
“Come here.”
I’ve been watching Sarah for the last few minutes. My book closed on my finger, marking my place. She’s been, I don’t know, bopping? Fiddling? Fussing? Not really doing anything, just, waffling around. She’s barefooted in jeans. So,
“Sarah, come here.”
I set my book on the end table, and uncross my legs and hold my hands out to her and she comes to me and steps to me and I put my hands on her hips and she leans down to kiss
My first memories are of being a slave. Perhaps I was one in a former life, perhaps not. In one of my memories I was bound and stood on a box in front of men. There was smoke, the click of ice in glasses, course laughter and my fear. My fear was also my arousal.
The men bid on me. I was torn by the fear of who would get me and what he would be like, the surreal pleasure that men were bidding on me — competing to see who would own me and use me. I was sold and moved back to the waiting
I didn’t know how best to describe my desires as I grew older, at least I never truly acknowledged them from fear of judgment until I met Him.
January. Two weeks ago.
I was rushing to class when I first saw Him. He was chatting with a good friend of mine, dressed in a black shirt and blue jeans.
He was undeniably gorgeous with bright green eyes and black hair, cut short on the sides and longer on the top. Stubble covered his square jaw, and with only a glance in my direction, I was
“Lay down on the bed,” she said, standing before me wearing just this little diaphanous garment so thin and short I could see the twin dark circles of her jutting nipples, as well as the gentle flare of her slim hips. Just a hair’s breadth below the gauzy hem was the trimmed pubis and sweet pink flesh I wanted to badly to plunder. But not right now. She was in control tonight, and I was doing whatever she said.
Still in my clothes from work, I did as I was told, stretching out
Chapter 1
Alone, I sat, waiting for her arrival. Six o’clock she had said, but it was already ten past that. “Maybe she’s just running late,” I told myself. “Maybe she’s having trouble finding the place. What is she doesn’t come? Oh, Christ! What if she does!” I drained the vodka in my left hand, considering a third.
It had been three nights since the last telephone call, the second in total. Dianne had sounded better than I had dared hope, that
As a writer here, I am quite different.
I write for women! I write in the 1st and 2nd person present text. I write for those women that are sexually bored, sadly underappreciated in their roles as girlfriend, wife and mother, or frightfully inhibited, but hiding a secret insatiable fantasy side…I write for those women that yearn to be in the grasp of strong, successful, attractive dominant men…men that are mysterious, successful, powerful, erotic.
Men who are strong and confident