Here I am horny as hell,
I have no-one to make me cum.
Can’t masturbate, not like I want.
I am wet and throbbing inside,
Eager to please and be your slut.
Tie me up, put me on sexual display,
At the mercy of you and your guests.
They won’t stop until you say,
For your pleasure they will enjoy me,
Your pussy spread, showing my wetnes.
I will squirt, squirm and scream,
They will admire you for training me.
They will enjoy the pink nipples you own,
Their lips & hands will keep them engorged.
Multiple mouths will eat your pussy,
You spread me open & watch their feasting.
I will not be in control of any of it,
Because I am yours, your slut.
You will be pleased with my service,
You will give them pics for their enjoyment.
I will have no choice, but to comply,
They will be your secret fan club.
They shall know EVERYTHING about me,
No secrets shall be held sexually.
Women and men will enjoy me greatly,
For you have trained me to be pleasing.
For me it’s something as simple as playing with my nipples. Hell, even if you look at them I start melting.
The sensation of my pussy walls showing how much someone is affecting me goes beyond any words I could describe.
Being molded and touched to be just what the person wanted… as they watch my writhing at their mercy.
Mmmm, I’m not in control, they are!
Screaming from pleasure, not from pain. Well, unless it’s the pleasurable trusting kind. 😘👅💦🍆
I could go on and on, but that’ll presently make me explode. 💋
I get leery when others are close to my personal space; which to me means if I can hear you breathing or smell your breath and or body odor (be-it your perfume or sweat) it makes me hyperventilate. I get irritable and start spazzing by indignantly telling them that we aren’t married and didn’t realize we were on a honeymoon.
I’ve always felt a sense of claustrophobia when others are next to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of being sexually assaulted when I was younger, but I don’t like others that I didn’t invite in my personal space. Ever since my recent accident, I get into such a frenzy when I am crossing the street; since I am now a living bobblehead while crossing the street on the lookout for anyone else who seems to forget their obligation to driving instead of texting and driving.
I curse out the drivers that turn while failing to use their turn signal lights.
Use your fucking turn signal lights. IT’S FREE! AS MUCH AS YOU PAID, IT COMES WITH THE FUCKING CAR!!!
I begin to get sweaty and shaky and find myself breathing rapidly. At times, I swear I can still feel the impact of being hit by this asshole’s SUV. I then find myself ridiculing myself because I get so anxious. Yet, it’s bad enough I already live with other issues of mental illness without this new added one.
I have recently started taking Cymbalta to aid in my coping with my depression and anxiety. It’s only been two weeks, but it may actually be working some. I don’t find myself to be so edgy, I think.
When others on right on my back, I still get panicky because my back does hurt every day. It’s just some days are worse than others and when people are really close to my back the least little bump is enough to send me to the ER after I hear,
Your fucking sorry doesn’t help my back from being fucked up. I am trying to not be rude when I ask someone to back up and give me a few inches of my own personal space. It’s a process and I have to realize that not everyone knows or understands my plight for my own safety and peace of mind.
Growing up I always knew I was different than other kids because of the way I didn’t deal with reality or because I felt awkward and withdrew from others (I still feel this way). There were times I; not knowing what panic attacks were, hid in closets just to be away from everyone else and in the dark until I felt like I could be around people again.
Another factor was that my parents; though court ordered, placed me in therapy because school officials reported my strange behavior to the state. I have been in therapy for as long as I can remember. However, I can’t say that I knew/understood what I was going to therapy for or what I was supposed to say and/or do. My parents always gave me a stern sentence before they drove me to my sessions,
Don’t you tell these people our business. What happens at home is none of their damn business.
If I find out you told these people our business, I’m gonna whip your damn ass.
(The whipping my ass comment was years prior to when hitting a kid was considered child abuse. That’s when anyone could spank your kid. I’ve had a few teachers and neighbors that have whipped my ass for my parents, but that’s another story.)
So, every week I’d go to therapy and act as if I didn’t have problems. As far as my parents were concerned, kids didn’t have problems. I grew up never telling my therapists about the dark moods I felt while other kids were happy-go-lucky. I never told how I’d felt; at times, like I shouldn’t be alive or didn’t feel like I was loved or wanted. I never spoke about the issues of why I acted out in school constantly; mostly to get the kids to like me, then get my ass beat when my father came home from work.
I never learned the art of true and effective communication in our house where the motto was,
Children should be seen and not heard.
So, I began to think and feel that my thoughts, feelings, and existence didn’t matter.
Suffice it to say, my true mixed feelings about therapy and its purpose(s) were revealed to me when I tried to commit suicide for the first time (February 12, 1985) when I was 14 by trying to kill myself at school. Fortunately, I was seen by the security officer as I attempted to slice my wrist who talked to me with compassion, cried with, and hugged me when she was able to talk me into giving her the knife.
When my mom was called to the school, she had no understanding as to why I’d want to do such a thing. In my opinion, she appeared to be embarrassed to be called there for my mental break down.
That was the day my whole personality and understanding about therapy changed.
My mom committed me to a psych ward for adolescents after taking me to the same therapist she told me not to tell anything to after she picked me up from school.
That was the FIRST time I’d ever opened up about my thoughts and feelings. It was also the exact day I became rebellious against my family, adults, kids, or anyone else that portrayed to give a shit about me. I started cursing my parents and adults out, started smoking and drinking, became anorexic and bulimic. I just didn’t give a shit.
In therapy it took a lot for me to feel comfortable to open up and once I did, there were times I felt relieved then felt embarrassed about what I’ve said. Then I’d shut down. I’ve been on/off different meds so many times.
My family and others that were aware of my mental illness teased me and made me feel awkward about taking the meds; much less being in treatment. So, whether I needed the meds or not… I’d stop taking it.
Therefore putting me more in a funk than I guess I originally was. Either I’d stay in bed; secluding myself from everyone, or I’d be overly aggressive, or I’d try too hard to fit in; therefore making myself too awkward around others.
I still do that from time to time. But I’ve improved, I’m more open in therapy now about how I feel and don’t care what the therapist thinks of me. Just recently I’ve admitted I need to be back on medication to help stabilize my moods, thoughts, and feelings.
I still deal with occasional thoughts of suicide, but I don’t try to act upon them. I am doing my best to survive my battle with mental illness and am grateful that I have a better understanding of therapy and know that I’m not alone.
I’ve recently cut off someone that I’ve listened to more propaganda from about being my Dom; along with two others “supposedly,” (I’ve never had contact with them… only through 3rd party). I doubt the last two existed.
My conversations were getting quite boring and I started losing interest. It was always the same texts… blah blah blah. Sending the same pics, the context of having three Doms. Not even meeting… them supposedly always being busy.
Time to leave the child’s play behind. I’m tired I’d the bs.
I will pick back up on my erotica blogs soon though. I just had to clean out my closet of junk I don’t want weighing me down.
Being in the room with them sends ripples down my spine. I’m standing here, nipples protruding through my threadbare tshirt and thong. I wasn’t expecting anyone to visit me today.
Staring at my nipples, with a sideways smile he says, “I’m happy to see you, too,” his eyes not wavering he closes the gap between us and hugs me… hard. I can feel his erection pressed firmly against my throbbing clit as my nipples are flattened against his chest.
Master and my Sirs have returned from their vacation early.
Across the room Sir Rick instructs me to gyrate against Master; giving him a better welcome than what I’ve given.
Sir Derek rips my thong off in one swift motion and smacks my ass with a loud thwack!
Sir Rick stands next to Master ready for me to be passed to him for his greeting.
As Master loosens his hold, his hands find their way to my stiff nipples and Sir Derek’s fingers find their way to my wet cunt; the tell tale sign of my eagerness to submit.
“Our slut is very happy we’re home.”
Master and Sir Rick rip open my shirt, attaching their greedy mouths to the perky nipples they claim as theirs to do with as they please.
I automatically place my hands behind my back, giving full access to my Master and Sir as they’ve trained me to do.
All three of their fingers start fucking me, making me moan loudly. I start to gyrate against them, after a few thrusts Master commands me to stay still, “Finger fucking you is purely for our pleasure slut! ”
I thank Master for their ministrations as I begin shaking uncontrollably, trying to control the rising eruption forming inside my moist and pulsing finger fucked pussy.
Master, Sir Rick, and Sir Derek’s cocks are exposed fully to my eyes as they stand before me, pushing me against the wall, giving me nowhere to go. Sir Rick and Sir Derek’s free hands keep my hips pressed against the wall, preventing me from gyrating against their pleasurable fucking fingers which are stretching me as all three of them try to insert their fingers at the same time.
Master’s chokehold on my neck is firm, yet not rough where it’ll bruise me or cut off my breathing. He’s always careful in things like that. Another reason why I love him and my Sirs so much.
My screams are pleasurable ones, making my loves pump faster, deeper, claiming what’s theirs; what I offer to them graciously and freely.
Sir Rick and Master continue to suck on the perky pink nipples that belong to them and Sir Derek’s tongue teases the throbbing and very wet clit that belongs to them for their pleasures.
I scream and beg at the top of my lungs for Master to permit me to cum.
“Yeeeeees, you may our lovely slut!”
I can barely speak to thank him as my Sirs release my hips and I fuck their fingers and Sir Derek’s face wildly as if my body was releasing an earthquake on the most damaging Richter Scale.
My screams bouncing off the walls as I drench Sir Derek’s face with their squirting and pulsating pussy!
Water is squirting all over the floor and across the room; Sir Derek’s face is still swimming within my geyser.
My husbands’ fingers have left from inside me, yet I can still feel the effects of them finger fucking me.
My squirting has finally subsided, my moans coming out in spurts as my chest heaves heavily.
Master smiles as he asks if I’m ready to love their cocks as he takes my hand and we all head toward our bedroom.
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Last night i met and fucked a complete stranger and it was exhilarating.
Looking forward to keeping the streak up.
Contact me with your info and I will continue being this newfound slut.