She tells me things in regard to herself, her voice dreamy, like it bdsm pussy torture’s separated out, but stop. Nothing like a man's voice, all muscle and bone. A miss's voice is cool water. It's softened thighs. It's force of breasts, like pillows, the smell of crushed clover.
I acquire lost in the voice. And then the silk of hair, the noxious exhalation heat of her neck.
And I am hers.
You think that inasmuch as I’ve bound her that I am Master. You think that for the cause that I've stuffed her mouth and taped her face, because I bear claimed every inch of her skin with rope, because I grant whatever I desire, that she is mine.
Watch her. Concentrate on the subject of her hands, the drape of her fingers. See how the ropes grow her, awakening.
And she is lithe. And she is serpentine, her visible form loose like coils of rope, but stretching, aching, gasping with sex, a blur of sex, an ocean, a warm wet shore.
Yes, I contract her so tight that she cannot resist. Yes, I cane her, I conclude her swollen labia into my fingers. And I sharpen my undeviating razor, allowing her to watch, allowing those dark, humid eyes to make an allegation for me to stop. But I am so much a slav to her body that I must finish what I've begun.
The scrape of razor-sharp steel on skin, on thigh, on labia. Her imbue with odor is like a series of cries, each one thicker, harsher, like burying and deep suffocating water.
I am lost.
Clean, pink, fresh-shaven cunt. Swell of her clitoris. Fattened dildo plunged into her hollow and tied in anal bdsm tube place. Vibrator laid upon her wild pussy. She grasps me by the rush of her desire and drags me along behind to the time when we hang at the edge of that steep, wicked precipice.
We plunge. We decline.
And there is always damage. Always wreckage.
But femdom bdsm we are caught in the idle fancy of her body. We are floating now, our sudden death exceeding us by, a repetition of waves, the screaming of the gulls.
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