I hesitated in answering his question, looking down and smiling friskily instead of speaking up. A second later he had me by the throat and was driving me across the length of the bedroom. I clutched on to his arm with both hands. He slammed me up against the door and asked again. I answered promptly, my insides doing a squirmy happy nervous dance.
It was raw and wild and full of bitey bites (both of us!). He was on top of me, fucking me, holding and twisting my leather collar tight on my neck. When he slapped my face and I naturally dipped and hid my face, he admonished that it was barely even a slap.
Master re-positioned my head with his other hand and gave me a serious of hard ones to both sides of my face until my cheeks stung and my jaw ached. I came. I couldn't imagine anything better.
Both of those tidbits of last night keep coming back to me in delicious remembrance.
Now and then I can't avoid the question of "why?" People who have been doing this way longer than me tell me it is pointless to ask why we like the things we like. But I do it anyway. I try to make my mind veer off the question by telling myself it just doesn't matter, but then things like last night happen and I'm wondering why I like that stuff again. I know there is nothing wrong with me, nothing wrong with my upbringing either. I'm a perfectly normal, average, everyday slavegirl...who gets off on pain and humiliation.
I should just adopt a Dr. Seussian motto.
These things are fun and fun is good.
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