Broken Rules, Kept Promises

[al****]

The following is another excerpt from a book I am writing about my life and the journey to better understand my kinks and myself.

I apologize if the spacing does not work as intended. I am learning how to use this app.
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In the meticulously manicured, surreal quiet of a Chicago suburb, I found myself at a crossroads of breaking my own cardinal rule. Rule number five: no intimacy without a model release form. But that night, as I approached a lavish home shrouded in the shadow of affluence, I was ready to step over that line.

For three months, I'd been the secret confidant of a married woman, her voice a mix of terror and desperation, ***ing the wrath of her influential husband. Her tales ***ted him as a cruel, neglectful, and unfaithful tyrant. Now, with a deeper appreciation for the sanctity of marriage vows, I look back with a tinge of regret. I had inserted myself into a sacred bond, one that I now understood was not to be trifled with. But life’s about stumbling, learning. And that night, young and brimming with life, I was a willing student. 

Breaking rule five was a slippery slope, a path that could easily lead back to the transient life of an escort, rather than creating something with enduring financial viability. But that night, as I stepped out of my SUV, camcorder in hand, it wasn't about financial longevity of a recorded scene, but something far more primal. As I approached the dimly lit house it was about the thrill of the forbidden, the dance on the edge of danger as I turned the doorknob and stepped into the unknown.

In the darkness, a trail of candles beckoned me upstairs, leading me to her. There she was, a thirty-six-year-old vision of desire, poised on the bed as instructed, her only attire a blindfold. The rope I had asked her to prepare lay in her quivering hands.

My reputation was built on explicit banter, but tonight was an exercise in restraint. Tonight was about the unsaid, the tense silence hanging between us like a thick fog. I was sparing with my words, each one weighed and measured for maximum impact.

"The camera is recording," I informed her, the lens of my camcorder capturing a scene devoid of commercial value but rich in something more profound. There she was, *** yet trusting, believing in my promise that I alone would be the guardian of this visual testimony of our encounter. Her complete trust was a powerful aphrodisiac, a different kind of turn-on.

Her breath, a hesitant whisper, broke the silence. "Okay," she exhaled, a pause hanging in the air like a half-formed thought. "I can't believe you're here."

A stray lock of blonde hair veiled her face; I tenderly brushed it aside, my fingers lingering on her skin. My hand ventured, tracing the contours of her body, her breath growing heavier under my touch. My mouth followed, exploring with a deliberate slowness, leaving a trail of wetness from one peak to the other. Her body responded, her nipples hardened like diamonds, perfect for teasing, for testing the limits of pleasure and ***.

My exploration continued, my fingers dancing across her inner thigh, deliberately avoiding where she most anticipated touch. It was a slow burn, a meticulous study of her body's landscape, noting every shiver, every involuntary movement.

"Unbuckle my pants and pull it out," I command.

Her hands, trembling yet efficient, fumble with the button, then the zipper. My jeans pool at my feet, and her soft fingers explore me, trailing a path along my length.

"It's big," she observed, a mix of awe and curiosity in her voice.

"Put it in your mouth," the words came out as a command, yet as she complied, I halted her. "Not yet. Lay back."

Through the unblinking eye of my camcorder's wide-angle lens, every second unfolds, raw and unedited. Ninety minutes of tape, each moment loaded with intention. Tonight's narrative isn't just about reaching a climax; that's merely a residual effect, a footnote in a much grander tale.

I'd planned to keep things controlled, to stay the course. But weakness grips me, and I veer off-script. My middle finger finds its way inside her, my thumb orchestrating a rhythm on her clit. An invisible *** pulls my head down, and I succumb to the urge to taste.

As I delve into her, I'm struck by a thought. Her stories of loneliness, of a loveless existence, they must be true. Because, were she mine, her flavor would be different, a blend of salt and bitterness, the residue of shared, relentless ecstasy. But here, now, it's different. I'm met with a sweetness, an untouched purity that speaks volumes of her untold narratives.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her hand creeping towards the blindfold. Swiftly, I grasp it. "Don't be a bad girl," I warn, my voice a blend of reprimand and challenge.

"I want to see you," she pleads, her voice a mixture of curiosity and defiance.

"That's not what we agreed on," I reply sternly, using the rope to bind her hands, thwarting any further attempts.

Her pleas continue, a mix of desperation and longing. "Please, I want to touch you. I'll be good." But her words are just echoes in the room as I tie her hands to the bedpost, her safe word conspicuously absent.

I return to my task, undeterred, and it's not long before I bring her to the brink, her toned legs convulsing, bearing the weight of her release. She's ready, her body a canvas of raw, unguarded desire.

As I enter her, a moan escapes her lips, "Fuck that's big." My smile is a silent acknowledgment of her surrender to the moment.

Her exclamations continue, a chorus of "holy fuck" as I adjust for depth, maximizing the intensity. 

In the build-up to this night, promises hung in the air, thick and unyielding.

She had said, her voice a mix of *** and defiance over the phone, "I'm not throwing my marriage away for a five-minute thrill."

My reply was a vow, etched in the certainty of my skills. "You'll climax first, and it won't just be once. It won't be a mere five minutes."

Her laughter was skeptical, tinged with years of unfulfilled desires. "I've never reached that point through sex."

So, I upped the ante, my words bold, assured. "As you pulse around me my throbbing cock bringing me to orgasm, I'll swell inside you, and that's when you'll hit the height of pleasure, the best you've ever had."

Fast forward back to the bedroom, 20 minutes deep into our act. Her cries for more, louder, harder, echoed off the walls, fulfilling two of my three pledges. And then, with my seismic release, her body contorted, a release so intense it seemed to exorcise her inner demons.

"I think I almost died," she gasped, her body still shivering in the aftermath, illuminated by flickering candlelight.

As I secured her ankle, her confusion was palpable. "Aren't we done?"

But the night wasn't over. My hands roamed her body, tracing a path from her legs to her jugular, each touch a reminder of her surrender to me. Her vulnerability, her submission, stirred me again, and I silenced her questions in the most primal way, guiding myself to the back of her throat.

The temptation to remove her blindfold was strong. I yearned to gaze into her eyes as she brought me to completion, to see her consume every last trace of me. But that would shatter the illusion, dissolve the mystery that cloaked our encounter.

So, as the tape reached its end and the camcorder clicked off, I left her blindfolded, instructing her to count to fifty. A final act of control, preserving the enigma of our encounter.

Driving away, I rationalized my broken rule as a means to enhance my on-camera performance. But deep down, I knew the truth. This night was about feeding a darker appetite, an exploration of obedience, trust, and dominance, and the relentless pursuit of being the best.

After a night steeped in such raw power and control, how could I ever return to the mundane? How could I deny the allure of this dark, intoxicating world I had created?

[An****]

Well written and an incredible experience🔥🔥

[Si****]

Extremely well written and a great story 👏👏👏

[Ed****]

Lol

[al****]

Thank you very much!

[al****]

I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters about me and the women in my story.

This is the updated Chapter 14: Broken Rules, Kept Promises

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In the meticulously trimmed, eerie quiet of a Chicago suburb, I stood at the edge of breaking my own cardinal rule. Rule number five: never get intimate with fans without a model release form. But that night, as I approached the sprawling mansion cloaked in the shadow of wealth, I was ready to cross that line.

For three months, I had been the secret confidant of a married woman. Her voice on the other end of the phone was always shaky, equal parts terror and desperation, haunted by the *** of her powerful husband. She spun stories of cruelty, neglect, and infidelity, ***ting him as a monster hiding behind affluence. At the time, I thought I was the escape she needed. But now, with a deeper understanding of the weight of marriage vows, I feel a gnawing regret. I had stepped into something sacred, something I had no right to touch. I realize now that some bonds, no matter how fragile they seem, shouldn’t be broken by an outsider’s hand. But back then, young and reckless, I was eager to learn, willing to fall.

Breaking rule five was dangerous, a slippery path that could pull me back into the transient life of an escort, where moments were traded for *** rather than something lasting. But that night, as I stepped out of my SUV, camcorder in hand, it wasn’t about business or profit. It was something else, something deeper. As I approached the dimly lit house, it wasn’t work that pulled me in; it was the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of walking into the unknown. The doorknob turned under my hand, and with it, I felt that familiar pull, the compulsion to push forward, as if I had no control over what would come next.

Candles flickered in the darkness, casting long shadows on the walls as they led me upstairs. The house was immaculate, every surface gleaming, every detail meticulously crafted. High ceilings, polished floors, not a speck of dust in sight. It was almost unsettling how flawlessly everything was arranged, like the space itself whispered control, mirroring my own need for order. Tonight, it felt as though this place existed solely for me, for this experience to unfold without a single flaw.

At the end of the candlelit path, she waited. Thirty-six, blonde, beautiful in the kind of way that seemed untouched by time or imperfection. Thin and pale, her skin catching the candlelight, flawless, smooth, unmarked. She sat on the bed, blindfolded, her hands trembling as they gripped the rope I had instructed her to prepare. *** yet composed, trusting that her obedience would be met with reward.

My reputation was built on explicit dialogue, words that dripped with seduction and authority. But tonight, words were unnecessary. Tonight was about silence, about letting the tension between us speak louder than anything I could say. Every word I did speak was deliberate, measured, crafted to linger.

“The camera is recording,” I said quietly, my voice steady. The camcorder whirred, capturing something that wouldn’t be shared but held far more value than ***: her trust.

She believed I would be the sole guardian of this moment, that I would protect the dignity she surrendered. That trust, the way someone offers themselves completely, expecting you to handle it with care, was more intoxicating than any physical act. It was the ultimate control, more powerful than anything I could take from her. And tonight, in this perfect room, it all belonged to me.

Her breath broke the silence, a hesitant whisper. “Okay,” she exhaled, her voice shaky, the pause between us thick like a half-formed thought. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

A stray lock of blonde hair veiled her face, and I reached out, brushing it aside with a tenderness that lingered. My fingers trailed across her skin, moving slowly, deliberately, feeling her breath grow heavier with each touch. She sat there, blindfolded, ***, her chest rising and falling as anticipation coursed through her. My mouth followed my hand’s path, moving with calculated slowness, tasting her, leaving a trail of wet heat from one hardened peak to the other. Her nipples, stiff like diamonds, begged to be teased, to feel that delicious tension between pleasure and restraint.

I continued my exploration, fingers skimming over her thighs, deliberately avoiding the spot she craved most. She trembled, every inch of her body responding to the slow burn I orchestrated, a careful study of her reactions. Every shiver, every involuntary movement, was mine to control. She wasn’t thinking anymore. She was lost in it, caught between the ache and the anticipation.

“Unbuckle my pants and pull it out,” I commanded, watching her reaction unfold beneath the blindfold.

Her hands, unsteady, fumbled with the button, then the zipper. She hesitated for a second, her breath catching in her throat, unsure if she was ready to take the next step. My jeans fell to the floor, and her soft hands found me, wrapping around me with curiosity, tracing every inch as if she were trying to memorize it.

“It’s so big,” she whispered, her voice a mix of awe and apprehension, her touch tentative.

“Put it in your mouth,” I ordered, feeling the tension mount between us. She moved to obey, her breath quickening, her lips parting, but I stopped her before she could. “Not yet. Lay back.”

As she complied, her body sinking into the bed, I adjusted the camcorder. The lens, cold and mechanical, captured every second, raw and unfiltered. Ninety minutes of tape, not a moment wasted. Tonight wasn’t just about the climax; that was inevitable, a side effect, a footnote to something more intentional. I always had a plan, a script. But tonight, I felt the edges slipping. Something deeper pulled at me, instinct maybe, and for the first time, I veered off course.

I had envisioned this scene a hundred times, but nothing prepared me for the raw beauty of her laid out, exposed, quivering with need. My middle finger slipped inside her before I could stop myself, my thumb finding its rhythm on her clit. This wasn’t part of the script, but the warmth of her, the way she responded, it was beyond anything I had imagined. And then, without thinking, I lowered my head.

As I tasted her, it clicked into place. Her stories of loneliness, of a life devoid of love and affection weren’t just lies she told to garner sympathy. They were truth, raw and real. I could taste it in her. There was a sweetness, a purity to her that I hadn’t expected. She wasn’t bitter, not stained by the salt of shared ecstasy like she would be if she were mine. She was untouched, unspoiled by the love she should have known. And in that instant, I understood the depth of her isolation, the way her body spoke in ways her words couldn’t.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her hand creeping toward the blindfold. In an instant, my fingers close around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. “Don’t be a bad girl,” I warn, my voice a blend of reprimand and challenge, the unspoken reminder of who holds the power.

“I want to see you,” she pleads, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and defiance, desperate to break through the veil that separates her from me.

“That’s not what we agreed on,” I reply, my tone firm and final. I decide when things change, not her. I grab the rope, binding her hands with tight, unyielding knots, ensuring she can’t attempt anything more. She’s under my control now, no room for negotiation.

Her pleas continue, tinged with desperation. “Please, I want to touch you. I’ll be good.” But the words fade into the room, disappearing as I secure her wrists to the bedpost. Her safe word remains unspoken, hovering like a silent challenge.

Undeterred, I return to my task. My tongue flicks over her clit, teasing, circling. I feel her tense under me, her hips grinding against my face as if she’s trying to *** herself over. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, the heat of her slickness coating my tongue as I work her over, deliberately drawing out every second. Her legs begin to convulse, bearing the weight of the release she’s so desperate for.

Then it hits. Her orgasm crashes over her, a wave of uncontrollable convulsions that ripple through her, shaking the bed beneath us. I savor every twitch, every cry that escapes her lips, the way her legs tremble, unable to hold the tension. She’s ready, her body a quivering landscape of pleasure as I prepare to take her.

I rise, positioning myself over her. My erection is hard and aching, ready. Her body is slick with the wetness of her recent orgasm, her warmth inviting me in. Slowly, deliberately, I enter her. The wetness makes it effortless, her body stretching to take me in fully. A moan escapes her lips, sharp and breathless. “Fuck, that’s big.” Her words slur into the air, a mix of surprise and surrender. I smile, knowing she’s given herself over to the moment completely.

I adjust for depth, each stroke deliberate, pushing deeper with precision. Her moans escalate, her breath catching as I find a rhythm that pulls cries of “holy fuck” from her lips. Her back arches, her hands bound but her mind fully engaged in the chaos of sensation. The friction between us charges the room, the connection between us tightening with every thrust. She’s lost in it, her words becoming incoherent, a jumble of need and release, while I stay in control, guiding her through the storm of pleasure that overwhelms us both.

In the build-up to this night, promises hung thick in the air, heavy and unyielding. We’d spent nights on the phone, her voice a mix of *** and hesitation. “I’m not risking my marriage for a five-minute thrill,” she’d said, the weight of years of unfulfilled desires in her tone.

My response was sharp, confident, etched in the certainty of what I could do. “You’ll climax first, and it won’t be just once. And it sure as hell won’t be five minutes.”

Her laughter was bitter, colored by years of frustration. “I’ve never reached that point through sex,” she said, doubt dripping from every word.

I caught the challenge in her voice and raised the stakes. “When your orgasm drags me over the edge, when you feel me come inside you, I swear it’ll be the best ride you’ve ever had.”

Her laughter faded. The silence on the other end of the line was more telling than any words. She didn’t believe it, but that doubt would only make the reality of it more potent. I could already taste the satisfaction of proving her wrong.

Fast forward to now, back in the bedroom, twenty minutes in. The candles flickered, casting shadows across her restless form as her cries echoed off the walls. “More,” she begged. “Harder.”

Two out of three promises fulfilled. The final part was yet to come, the part she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Then, with my climax surging through me like an earthquake, everything shifted. My length, already formidable at nine inches, swelled to a size that pushed her beyond anything she ever thought she could take. An extra inch, a noticeable increase in girth. Her reaction was immediate and violent. The sensation rippled through her, starting at her clit and spreading like fire, an uncontrollable wave of pleasure that tore through her torso, raced to her breasts, and brushed across her lips, as if every nerve ending had ignited all at once.

Her body tensed, toes curling as her wrists strained against the ropes, every muscle tightening under the onslaught of pleasure. She gasped, breath catching as the orgasm tore through her, wave after wave crashing relentlessly, leaving her trembling in its wake.

And then, as suddenly as it had surged, it ebbed. She collapsed back onto the bed, a lifeless stillness taking over. The room was swallowed by silence, save for the soft flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. The stillness held, the weight of the pause hanging in the air, pressing down on everything. Even the candles seemed to burn slower, as if they, too, were holding their breath.

For a moment, it was as if she had stopped breathing altogether, her chest barely rising, her skin glistening in the dim light. The world paused, suspended in a fragile calm. Then, with a sudden, desperate gasp, she inhaled sharply, pulling air back into her lungs.

“I think I almost died," she whispered between ragged breaths, her chest rising and falling in the flickering candlelight. Her words were half in jest, but the look on her face said otherwise. What she had experienced was beyond anything she had imagined, exactly as I had promised.

As I moved her bound hands from the bedpost to behind her back, her confusion was palpable. “Aren’t we done?” she asked, her voice soft, uncertain.

But the night wasn’t over. My hands roamed her curves, tracing the lines of her smooth legs up to her jugular, each touch a reminder of her complete surrender. Her vulnerability stirred something deep in me again. Without a word, I answered her in the most primal way possible, guiding myself to the back of her throat, swift and without warning.

She didn’t waver. She didn’t resist. She knew her place, and her technique was flawless, perfectly attuned to my needs. The temptation to remove her blindfold tugged at me. I wanted to see her eyes, to watch her reaction as she consumed me completely, to witness the power exchange with her gaze. But I resisted. Removing the blindfold would ruin it, would shatter the illusion and strip away the mystery I had so carefully built around our encounter.

Time passed, dragging out each second until the camcorder clicked off, a mechanical sound punctuating the silence. I left her blindfolded, my taste still on her tongue, the warmth of me still inside her, instructing her to count to fifty before she could move. A final act of control, a way to preserve the enigma, leaving her suspended in uncertainty, unsure and wanting more.

Driving away, I tried to justify it all. I told myself that breaking the rule had been about enhancing my performance on camera, about creating a memory to tap into when I needed to dig deeper for a scene. But I knew that wasn’t the real reason. The truth was simpler. This night wasn’t about the footage. It was about feeding a darker hunger, an exploration of just how far I could push obedience, trust, and dominance. It was about the relentless pursuit of being the best, about hearing how good I was, knowing that I’d left her with no doubt.

After this night steeped in raw intensity and control, how could I ever return to the mundane? How could I resist the pull of the world I had created, a world where I could shape every interaction, bend every desire to my will? The allure wasn’t just in the act; it was in the ability to craft something so uniquely my own, a reality that was anything but ordinary. A world where every moment, every surrender, every boundary pushed was a reminder that I was in command.

Edited November 4 by alexxxwild