I had my chance to say what I wanted to say. He had just fucked the hell out of me, we were both sweating, thirsty, exhausted. I loved it. All his restraints fell by the wayside, he pinned me down, throat-fucked me with his hands wrapped around my neck. He chocked me while pushing his cock up my cunt and I struggled for breath.

Those were days in London, just eight months ago. The passion was raw.

The next morning, I wrote him a letter; a letter he never saw. A letter, I carried with me to St. Petersburg.

Last night, I was yours. Everything felt so right. You took me the way you wanted. You had no regard for me, just pure, raw, lust. No need for fetish attire, just your body, the brutality of your cock, the sensitivity of your fingers.

You made me feel special. I had never seen you use me so fully, toss me around like a feather, not ask for permission, not ask if I’m OK, not ask for anything. You took everything you wanted. And what you wanted was me.

Now I want you. You’re away, but will be back this afternoon. When you get back, I’m ready for you. My body is still bruised, my cunt is hurting, my ass stretched. My throat is sore from swallowing your cock. I want more.

I had a taste of the animal in you. You are brutal, you devour me, you don’t stop until you have destroyed me. Then you leave me behind. But I know that you will return, just like an animal, to the same feeding grounds.

Last night was the first time I felt free. You broke through my walls, like I broke through yours. We need each other. I need you. I’m a fetishist, so are you. But that’s just our kink. Underneath, we are the same. We need a partner, someone who makes time stand still.

When you dominate me, give me no choice but to choke on your cock and swallow your cum, hold me down against my struggles, I’m not your lover, but your slut. My pussy becomes your cunt. My mouth, your fuckhole. My tits, target of your sadistic side. My piercings, mere toys to torture me while you use my body. I love you. There, I said it.

I wear high heels when I don’t need to. The pain reminds me of you. You know I do it for you. I masturbate thinking of you, use the gasmask you gave me to come even harder. You know when I come. I bind myself into my corset before you return, leaning against the strings, squeezing my waist until I can barely breath. You know when to breath for me. You love me. There, I said it.

Returning from St. Petersburg, I still carry the letter in my coat.

Masturbation Monday
Sinful Sunday