No one hurts me like you do. Because no one loves me like you do.
Cocooned in your arms, you held me while I sobbed. I must have looked a state, tears trailing down my cheeks, cheeks already stained with spit and sweat and cum and piss. Crying on your birthday of all days.
“Sorry,” I said like I often do.
“I’m not a bit sorry,” you replied; giggling like you always do.
You knew, didn’t you, just knew they were tears of joy. Understood that right then I couldn’t find the words. Not like you, Miss, you found the perfect words; you always do.
“I love you, baby,” you said. Others have said that to me, you know. But no one has ever got close to adding, “I love you for who you are.”
For who I am. For who I am. God, there have been times when I’ve hated who I am. When the words cum-slut and pain-whore turn into barbs; usually said affectionately at first but eventually tarnishing with contempt. Guys who are oh-so up for threesomes and moresomes, but God forbid that I actually like it too fucking much.
Never you; is it significant that you’re the first woman I have loved, I mean truly loved? The only one to see me saying ‘just fun’ and ‘nothing serious’ for what they actually were, armour plating for the emotions.
I’ve always thought I was addicted to cock. But I love your cunt more, truly, truly worship her. Miss, nowadays nothing’s more important than pleasuring your pretty pussy.
You know I still need cock too. Of course, you do, tying me up and letting, no encouraging, those six guys to use me. Telling three of them to fill my slut-holes with cum and the others to ejaculate over my tits and face. Did I ever tell you that the last thing I saw before I lost myself in a supernova orgasmic rush was your smile? I came so hard that day; not for them, but for you, Miss.
When we first met, you seemed a little cautious. Oh, I know that’s an odd thing to say. Given that, on our first date, you smeared my cunt-cream over your fingers, bent me over and stretched my anal ring as you finger-fucked my arse, one finger, then a second, a third and a glorious fourth; the gorgeous, gorgeous burn wracking my body. The palm of your other hand slapped my clit; firmer and firmer until I screamed your name for the first time and gushed all over your fingers.
That cautiousness, so unlike the others, is, I realized, because you don’t get off on just using me. You’ve always taken care to check that I’m okay pushing the boundaries of filthy whoredom. And now you know; I always am, always have been and always will be. But no more do I want to be just any old slut. I’m your filthy whore now, Miss.
For a while, I was like an onion, my emotional core wrapped in layer upon layer. Having got me physically naked you then methodically stripped me of my emotional baggage. It so fucking scared me, Miss. Could you love the dirty slut you found at my core?
And you did, you love me; your fuck-toy, your bitch and whatever other words it is my privilege for you to use. Being loved for who I am is the best thing that has ever happened to me.
Today, your birthday, oh my God, I so didn’t know what to give you. The lunch I made for you was really only about getting you fed before your night shift at the hospital. Though I did bake a special cake; you looked so cute, giggling when you managed to smear icing on your nose.
Not food, nor jewellery, nor any trinket I could have bought, they wouldn’t do for my Miss on her special day. I needed to give you the most precious thing I have, namely me; to find a way of showing you I am totally and irrevocably yours.
That’s why, after lunch, you found me spreadeagled on my bed, my hands and feet handcuffed to the bed frame. Naked, apart that is from my collar; the collar you strapped around my neck months ago, the collar I will always wear for you. Well, there was also a ball-gag in my mouth, I didn’t need to speak for I was yours to do with as you pleased.
You’ve always been so fucking intuitive with me, Miss. God knows how you knew that today I needed to be taken to the edge of my limits. But I realized you did when your eyes raked over my body, seeing my pussy already sticky with strands of goo. For you immediately fetched the nipple clamps you bought for me, the ones you can actually screw tighter and tighter, from my bedside table.
Holding the clamps in your hand you slowly undressed, unveiling your beautiful body. You know I think you are so, so gorgeous and, even though the gag meant I couldn’t tell you that again, the drool dribbling from the edge of my mouth must have given the game away.
I watched your nose twitch, inhaling the scents now swirling around the room. Your cunt or mine, Miss, which one made you smile?
You smeared some drool over my stiffening nipples and did what you always do before you hurt me. You said, “I love you.”
Clamping one nipple and then the other, our eyes locked while you achingly slowly tightened the clamps. I didn’t flinch as your ratcheted up the pressure, my nipples throbbing, the burn flowing straight to my weeping cunt.
Pain and pleasure, the Siamese twins of my sexuality. You once asked me why, and all I could say was that I crave the way pain unlocks a higher realm of pleasure. And while others use me like force was the name of the game, you never have. Always watching me like a hawk, pushing me, inch by delicious inch, right to my limits but taking care never to brutalize me.
With the clamps fully tightened, the excruciating pain liquefied my cunt and my drool dribbles became a torrent. The ball gag stopped me clearly articulating my words, but those mumbles you heard were, “I love you, Miss.” I am certain you knew that; you always do.
There’s a pattern to you, you know. Only ever allowing twenty minutes before you release the clamps. And you expect me to cum as the blood flows into my numb nipples. That’s not difficult, the hard part’s always been not cumming before you allow me to. Especially when you do what you did tonight.
Taking a butt plug from my drawer, you smeared it in my drool. Then whispered, “I love you,” and twisted the plug hard into my arse-hole. You just took me, the stretch and the burn so agonizingly good.
Remember when you said that I was by far your most anal girlfriend. I burst into tears. You were puzzled, but held me tight like you always do. And giggled, then kissed away my salty tears, when I pointed out that was the first time you had called me your girlfriend.
I love you saying girlfriend, though you are now quite taken with calling me ‘my anal-slut of a girlfriend,’ which is as cute as it is accurate. Oh, and your subsequent giggle is as adorable as it is wicked.
With my nipples clamped and the plug stretching my arse-hole, I confess I was expecting you to seat the pony end of your purple Feeldoe in your cunt. I adore how lewdly it juts from your lasered pussy and adore how you shaft me with it until our cum-goo merges and you fuck our essence into the cunt you own.