I am a 34 year old divorced woman. I have recently moved from the small town where I spent my whole life to a larger city, to re-start my life.
My ex-husband had little or no interest in sex. Sometimes it would be months between feeble attempts. There was never anything interesting or creative. No oral, or anal, which I was craving.
As I woke up, slowly feeling my senses come back to me, a slight fuzzy light hitting my eyes, a slow ringing in my ears, a bit of a parched throat, I tried to get a sense of my bearings. I hate mornings like this. So discombobulated in those first few moments, needing to piece together the details of last night. Clearly I had had to much to drink, clearly I was a bit hungover.
I guess I did it on purpose though I'm not really sure I knew it at the time. If I think about it long and hard, I'm almost certain it wasn't my idea at all, but I'm not so certain you'd agree with me on that one. There again, I doubt you're complaining one way or the other since either way you still got your way. Okay, we both got our way, but that's not the point either.
Spots of dappled sunlight streamed through the trees and danced and twirled on the pavement as I waited for her outside the building. She was always late, frantically trying to keep up with her life. Not that I would ever want her life, I snorted to myself. Immediately regretting the thought, I focussed on the distant rush of traffic echoing softly through what had to be the last quiet street in Brisbane's central business district.
Twice during the short night, she had woken in terror and struggled in his arms. Each time he had held her tightly comforting her, his calm voice reassuring her that no one would harm her again. Nuzzling and petting her until she slept once more, it took more will power than he knew he possessed not to take her each time she woke and his hands travelled over her lithe, supple body soothing her fears.
She knew he was looking at her, he was clever at not showing it but she knew. Each time she looked to her left she did not see, but sensed, his sudden head movement out of the corner of her eye. On the couple of occasions when she had swivelled casually on the bar stool and stared at him, his face remained locked on the man he was talking to, unnaturally motionless, as if his neck was made of stone. Oh yes, he was interested.
"So, you think you might be OK, now? A different perspective, I hope?"
"Yes, yes, thank you, . . . You know I haven't gotten your name. I feel so . . ."
"No need to, son. You can just call me Dingle. And I won't be seeing you up here again, I do hope."
"Umm. I kinda hoped that—"
To call the private studio of the Dominatrix a dungeon would, for the fortunate, earn only her contempt. Eschewing the contrivances of male sadomasochistic fantasies, the walls were painted a passionless shade of gray-green, the oak floor polished to the luster of ancient gold, and the sole window decorated with an embroidered ivory curtain, now closed.
"Fire in the hole!"
Lauren Thompson watched with satisfaction as the two tapered smokestacks suddenly curtsied and bowed like 18th Century dancing partners, collapsing into a billowing cloud of dust. She rose from her crouch behind the wall of sandbags, turned off the bullhorn and walked back to the operations trailer to review the remote camera videotapes.
Living with Paige was pure hell for Ally. Every moment she was around was like slow, agonizing torture which Ally often likened to having dull screws driven deep into her skull while having her heart ripped violently and awkwardly from her chest by hateful vultures. Well, maybe not that bad, but it definitely sucked in the worst possible way.