Aug 22 2008
The power of his words.
Photography of Thursday’s Child by Narration by D
He writes to me.
“I want you to sneak into the bathroom and play with your slutty pussy. Pull your hair like I will. Taste my cock, feel the need.
I love it, little slut, my cock in your ass… deep, hard, hair pulled, balls slapping, squeezing your nipples… cum for me.
I want to make you cum until you’re crying, and wet, and spent, and (almost) too done to suck me off until I cum all over you.”
I do as I’m told. I’m a good little slut and I like to obey my master. I touch my pussy, pressing my fingers against my throbbing clit, sliding them inside my slick greedy little pussy and grind against my hand, all while biting my bottom lip to keep all the sounds in. I come hard, explosively, coating my entire hand with my juices and still they drip down my thighs and soak the gusset of my sensible cotton work panties. I lick my fingers clean before washing my hands to try to remove every trace of my sluttery. I can still smell myself on my skin - that distinctive scent that D describes as slightly spicy, like cumin. I can’t stop thinking about it, thinking about him, the whole time I’m sitting at my desk, working.
I’m amazed and slightly appalled at the wetness between my legs, by the insatiable nature of my slut. Pressing my thighs together only intensifies the ache, and every new message inflames me. Reading his words, my cheeks flush, skin flaming red and hot and waves of dizziness wash over me while I imagine myself in his thrall. The imagery that his words conjure up, the clash of his skin against mine, his body hard against, the sounds, the scents that I imagine.
I want to call him, to let him hear the unsteady tremor in my voice, so that he knows exactly what he does to me, and exactly what I do for him.
