"Well," Tom sighed, "what other romantic songs do we have for Valentine's Day? More Dean Martin?" The little piano bar was more crowded than on some nights. It had been a shore day, St. Martin. No big production show tonight, just one of those juggling comedians that seem to find their way on to cruise ships. Washed up, like him, flotsam bobbing against the shoreline, but not quite, not quite stranded yet.
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"You've got to talk to me, Babe."
His fingers trailed down her throat...down her chest...over the curve of her breast, the nails leaving the slightest trace of redness in their wake. Her body arched instinctively, hungry for his touch. She writhed there, tugging at the nylon cuffs that kept her wrists bound over her head.
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Mike read the terse text message from his wife Sunny. She was working late, yet again, and had texted not to ask how his day went, but to demand he take care of dinner plans. Again. A second text amended the list: feed the dog, take all the trash out and start washing her work clothes.
Sunny had been a real bitch lately, and he was getting tired of dealing with it. He knew part of it was hormonal.
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Different times demand different styles of play, and lately the intense play I crave has been on hiatus. This saddens me even as I welcome the new facet to our dynamic. Indeed, I begged for this, pleaded for it, and the outcome pleases me every bit as much as it does him. Still though, I crave...something. I'm not even sure what; I only know that I long for total, complete submission, being owned by him in every way possible.
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After that little Halloween incident with my gynecologist, Dr. Markus DeShade and his band of kinky cohorts, he has been exceptionally nice to me. So has his wife Evelyn, although I think her interest is more on the Sapphic side. Tall, good-looking women tend to become attracted to me, as was the case with my German friend, Eva Reichman (see Cat's Discovery).
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So, this is it, I thought to myself. I had not told my wife of this plan, of course. It was not something that I cared to share with her. Then again, I didn't share much at all with her anymore, except for our last names. She had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with my "kinky stuff". That included spanking her, tying her up, and generally having my way with her. She was much more conservative than I turned out to be.
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Chapter ONE
Jordin Tyler knew the streets of Capitol City pretty well, but the Lower East Side was something else. The old "Bohemian" section of town had a lot of winding little cobblestone lanes and odd-shaped buildings. In the daytime it was quaint and picturesque, but on a dark, cloudy night with fog drifting in, it was easy to get lost there.
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I don't know how it happened. Nothing seemed out of place. The last thing I remember is getting out of the shower and drying my hair. That's when I saw him in my vanity mirror. A figure, clothed in black with a mask over his face, wrapping him arms around my shoulders and face. Then everything went black. I know I should call the police but...I don't know if I want to.
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Stacy closed the front door, and instinctively headed to the kitchen to grab herself a glass of wine to ease the pain of yet another unsuccessful blind date. This had become a far too familiar routine. Friends paraded guy after guy in front of her, all with the promise of "he'd be PERFECT for you". "Perfect seems to be subjective", Stacy mused to herself.
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She thought I had forgotten. It's pretty impossible; it's two weeks after mine exactly. Her temper tantrums as of lately have been cute. It'll make tonight so much more fun.
I haven't said anything about her birthday and it's cute that she's stressing about it. Not to toot my own horn or anything but, I'm the best girlfriend ever.
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