the life and musings of a kinky slut



I felt like a zombie when I woke, my memories of last night foggy, barely perceivable through the morning haze in my mind.

There was rope. There was always rope. There were toys: a flogger, a cane, a dildo.

The order of things was still fuzzy, but as I attempted to stand, flashes of my night came back. I turned around and saw him, splayed out on the bed, his boots still on. I lifted my hands; I could make out the faint smell of the shoe grease I’d massaged into that creamy black leather.

Yeah, last night was a good night.

Grazing my chest, the ache from his punches warmed me. Cocking my hip, I saw the brusies on the side of my thigh. Rubbing the top of my back, I delicately traced the lines of scabs now formed from the word he inscribed there: MINE. Remembering him marking me sent chills through my crotch.

Our clothes were flung here and there, littering the floor of the hotel room. A lamp was overturned. The coffee table was askew. Nothing was broken, thankfully.

Stepping into the bathroom, I now saw my face. Pink blobs on my chin showed where his hands had connected. A wry smile creeped across the reflection.

Starting the shower, I turned the hot water up high. Steam filled the bathroom. I sat in the tub and let the droplets pound on me, a rough massage on my bruised and beaten body.

The curtain was suddenly flung aside, and he loomed over me, naked. Bending down, he grabbed a chunk of my hair, pulled my head back, and stuck his tongue down my throat.

The water made my skin slippery against the smooth tub, and our bodies slid this way and that as he stepped in with me. Grabbing one knee and then the other, he rocked my hips up and pulled my wanting pussy towards his rock hard cock.

I could barely hear my gasp as he entered me, and began fucking hard. Which each thrust, he said it again and again.

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

And with each utterance, my body grew closer and closer to its inevitable explosion.

Categorised as: Erotica | Rope

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