“You know what comes next, don’t you?”
I’m coming off an orgasm when his words register. He grabs the lube, and my eyes grow wide. I softly nod. But the truth is, I’m not sure if I can take it. It’s been a long time. But I want to be that girl for him—the girl he said I would become for him tonight.
Tonight I want to remind you what a little whore you can be. I want to get you to that place where you’ll do anything, give me anything to keep feeling good. I want you to remember what you are.
It’s been hard for me to get there lately. I haven’t been feeling sexual. And on top of that, we’ve had some missteps where I wasn’t in the right headspace, and our scenes have gone sideways. But tonight I’m ready. I want to give this to him. I want more than anything to be that wild, insatiable girl again.
He coats his hand in lube and starts slowly working it inside me. Slowly. Three fingers. Four. He’s patient. I start wincing, and he adds more lube. Gradually I feel myself opening up for him. The uncertainty begins to subside, and I’m just left with how good it feels. Five fingers now. Now all that’s left is his knuckles.
I look up into his green eyes. They are so soft. So disarming. He beams down at me.
“Daddy loves you exactly as you are.”
He lets his words hang in the air. Daddy loves you exactly as you are. And suddenly I’m struck with how badly I needed to hear it. Of course, I know intuitively that he accepts me. But at this moment, I feel it. When we do these things, it reminds me that I don’t have to do anything, feel anything, be anything other than what I am. I can let go with him. No filter. And the reminder is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
“I don’t want you holding back. Give it all to me.”
Then he starts working his hand inside. It’s a struggle, but I relax myself. Then I feel his hand slip inside me all the way. My labia stretch around his wrist. It’s always so overwhelming at first. Like if I breathe or move, the sensation will be too much. He knows not to move. The all-consuming intensity of it is erotic and painful all at the same time. But after a minute or so, the arousal takes over. My hips start moving. It’s almost imperceptible at first. Just a little quiver. But he notices. He always does.
“That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Then I’m raising and lowing hips, fucking myself on his hand. He pulls his hand out and slides it back in, stretching me over and over. I roll through orgasm after orgasm until I’m just a whimpering mess. Barely able to form words. Sore and exhausted, and yet my hips keep moving. They don’t know when to stop. The animal in me has taken over.
Eventually, he slips his hand out of me. I feel empty but soft and open. Like every part of me is open to him. He only needs to take it. I’m in a daze when his cock brushes my lips, and my mouth opens automatically. This is my place. We both know it.
I forget sometimes how much I need these moments. And it’s not because of the kink itself. It’s because the kink is part of how we say, I see you—all of you—and I love you for it. Acceptance. He loves me because of these things, not in spite of them. And it not only connects me to him; it also connects me to myself. This is why we need the kink. It makes us more ourselves than we are any other way.
janainaart
turnnoffyourmind
vaporwave
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
