al**** Posted March 6 Posted March 6 Relocated, my life has taken on a new landscape: a northern Illinois suburb replaces the beachfront of Florida, a brick house stands where sand once sprawled, and in place of red locks, dirty blonde hair cascades. Another year added to my life and her, paradoxically, growing younger by three. Amidst these changes, my core desires persist: a hunger for control and structure in a world that often feels untethered. Yet, there's this nagging sensation of slipping, a battle to maintain dominance that seems increasingly elusive. The initial three months were a deep dive into communication, laying down the rules, and guiding her in the craft of gratification. She adapted swiftly, pulling us both back onto a track of mutual discovery. And really, who wouldn't find clarity in the company of a nine***-year-old vision of allure, eager to surrender to my whims? Her essence, a nod to classic French elegance; wide, expressive eyes, a charming button nose, lips meant for sin, and a body that is supple and smooth, radiating a seamless grace. Captured through the lens of my camera, her dedication was evident as she devoted herself as she went down on me. However, the moment she chose to defy my command, concealing the contents in her mouth before consuming every trace, marked the onset of a more challenging phase: discipline. It's here that our journey took a turn, where the true challenge of shaping and molding desire took center stage. Submission, it's intoxicating, igniting those dopamine receptors like nothing else, but obedience? That's where true ecstasy lies. This life, a realm where the lines between fantasy and reality blur, revealing the raw underbelly of desire society tends to shy away from. My mind wanders, drifting back to the early days with the redhead who once ***ted my world in vibrant hues. She was twenty, I was barely scratching twenty-three, her protests reverberating against the walls. "Please don't," she'd implore as I adjusted the strap, securing her legs to the bench. "One warning is all you get," my response, as firm as the binds that held her wrists. Tracing her skin, so fair, so trusting of me to honor her boundaries, my pulse quickens. *** isn't the path to enlightenment here; our training is a dialogue, a mutual understanding. I'm attuned to her, to the subtleties of her reactions, to the unspoken desires that whisper from the curve of her form. I relish the push to the edge, those moments drawing her close to climax before pulling her back, the tension visible in the bite of her lip, the rise of goosebumps under my touch. We cycle through this, a rhythm of denial and anticipation, until exhaustion takes its toll, her resilience worn thin by the marathon of restraint. Time blurs, her mental fortitude waning under the strain, the effort etched in sweat upon her brow. Offering her a sip of cold water, I probe, "What did we learn?" Her response, whispered with a vulnerability that ignites me, "Failure is not an option." "Do you want a release?" I question, fingers softly combing through her hair. A nod, her desire barely contained. "Tomorrow morning," I decree, setting boundaries that test her further. "If I catch you touching yourself, you'll find yourself here again, faster than you can fathom," I caution as I release her from her restraints, marking the end of today's lesson and the beginning of her anticipation. Perhaps it was the bond forged through shared trauma, or maybe the foundation of clear communication and solid ground rules we laid out before diving into our dynamic. In our shared moments, we leaned into crafting the space we desired, channeling our efforts into creation rather than exerting them on discipline and punishment. Yet, shifting from those past ties to the here and now, I'm confronted with this figure before me, with hair the color of sun-touched wheat. Her cries pierce the air, a plea for intensity, "hurt me, God hurt me," illustrates a preference for discipline over adoration. The only command she reliably follows is my directive to part her legs or mouth. She counters every command, choosing the opposite of what's asked; spitting when told to swallow, swallowing when the expectation is to spit. Contrary to my orders, she finds her climax as I navigate her tight pussy, ignoring my attempts to deny her orgasm. A hint of discomfort manifests as I venture further, into territory less traversed, yet she defiantly reaches the apex again, disregarding my authority. Her mouth, then, becomes the arena of our silent confrontation, where her gratification isn't hers to dictate. With each intense movement, our eyes lock; hers brimming with tears, struggling for air against my advance. All required of her is surrender, to cease this futile resistance, and peace would be hers. Nevertheless, her opposition is unwavering, resulting in her rebellion spilling over me. Our agreed-upon safe word, intricate and unlikely to be uttered unintentionally, remains unspoken throughout our nine-month saga. Now, she's exposed and restrained in my living room, her dignity stripped in a quest to instill humility. My frustration bubbles over as I question, "Did you learn your lesson?" My hand, weary from its task, meets her skin once more, leaving a canvas of deep purples and blues against the natural hues of her body. "No," comes her defiant response, paired with a challenging smile that only fuels my resolve. The disappointment is clear upon my face as I reach for her hair, seeking leverage yet again, the aridness of her pussy speaks volumes of the ordeal endured. Yet, my resolve doesn't waver; a deliberate spit into my palm precedes my hand's journey, facilitating my entrance once more. Each movement is laden with an intent that borders on the primal, even as her proclamations, "I love it, God I love it," fill the air, challenging my control. It's a raw spectacle, her positioned on all fours, me immediately behind, knees set to keep her stance wide, our forms merging as if custom-made to fit together. Together, we create an image of unity, so fluid it seems we're one entity, her skin rippling under the *** of each determined thrust, her hands fiercely gripping the sheets as surges of ecstasy transform her expressions. This scene borders on perfection, my grip on her hair tilting her head back to capture the fleeting expressions that cross her face. The moment her right hand rises to stroke her face, trying to ease the overwhelming surge of sensation, stands out, a stark portrayal of human sensation and deep connection. The effort wears on me, sweat bearing witness to our intensity. I hit the peak for the sixth time today; despite my intentions, she follows suit. It's in this exhaustive state, a thought crosses my mind, a clear awareness of how far we've strayed from the original expectations of our agreement. Drained and frustrated, I pull out of her, releasing her from my hold, watching as she tumbles from the bed, her laughter echoing a satisfaction I can't share. My internal conflict rages, a dichotomy between two subs whose differences couldn't be more stark. One relationship was grounded in mutual respect and trust, an easier sell to the masses, while the other, marked by a deeper, darker craving, aligns with the desires of my young partner, whose essence and whims hint at a penchant for the sadistic. Society insists such desires are misplaced in the idyllic setting of white picket fences, yet in an ever-connected globe, I've come to understand that for every soul, there exists a perfect counterbalance. On this day, the realization hit me: my sub, with her golden locks, was not my destined half. I attempted to part ways, yet her plea for another chance led to an extension of our connection by four months. However, she never truly grasped what I sought; it wasn't merely about the physical, the primal, or the taboo fantasies that ensnare the mind. Those were merely fragments. What I yearned for was devotion, a genuine submission that went beyond surface-level engagement, which remained elusive in her presence. And therein lay my epiphany: Could what I mistook for shallow submission actually have been her cunning way to fulfill her own desires for the intense, raw encounters she yearned for? Was our dynamic, one I believed to be grounded in control and submission, actually a battleground for dominance, throwing off the equilibrium I so valued? It dawns on me that perhaps, in the midst of passion that blinds and binds, the most glaring signs were overlooked, camouflaged by the ecstasy of the experience.
Deleted Member Posted March 6 Posted March 6 This was very well written. It's intriguing and draws you in. The reader knows exactly whats happening and it's sensual and thought provoking yet eroticallty subtle. One of the last lines "what I yearned for was devotion, a genuine submission that went beyond surface level engagement which remained elusive in her presence". I felt that and appreciate the intimate thoughts. I really loved this!
Lsmart938 Posted March 6 Posted March 6 I don’t read many of the stories on here but I enjoyed this. Interesting piece. Nicely written, colourful and I like the contrasts throughout.
al**** Posted October 13 Author Posted October 13 I have been working on my book to add depth to existing chapters bout me and the women in my story. This is the updated Chapter 12: A Tale of Two Subs (Note this was formally chapter 11 but I added a chapter before it) ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Relocated, my life has taken on a new landscape: a northern Illinois suburb replaces the beachfront of Florida, a brick house stands where sand once sprawled, and in place of red locks, dirty blonde hair cascades. Another year has passed for me, but somehow, she's three years younger than the one who came before. The house is different. She's different. But me? I stay the same. Same need. Same hunger for control. Control is constant. It has to be. But it’s slipping. I can feel it slipping, bit by bit, like sand through fingers. Each day, the fight gets harder. I’m locked in a relentless battle to maintain dominance, a grasp that’s slipping further out of reach. I should've seen it in the way she sprawled across my space like it was hers to claim. Like she dared the universe to challenge her. But it wasn't in her posture; the real warning was in her eyes. Half-lidded, watching me, not with lust but calculation. She wasn't here for me. She was here on her terms. One leg relaxed, the other tense, almost like she was waiting for me to make a move she hadn't already mapped out. But I ignored it. The first three months were about setting the stage. Communication. Rules. Teaching her how to please me. She picked it up quick, pulling us both deeper into something new. Who wouldn't be drawn in? Nine*** years old, beauty that turned heads. There was something almost regal about her: those curious eyes that sparkled with intrigue, a button nose that whispered innocence, and lips designed for sin. Her body, soft and graceful, pulled me in like gravity. I missed the danger in all that allure. Through the lens of my camera, her dedication played out frame by frame. She made it her mission to please me, every night offering the release I needed. Without it, my mind spins, a storm of thoughts crashing into each other, nerves buzzing like a thousand tiny fingers drumming across my skin. Insomnia always lurking, waiting to drag me through endless hours of darkness. But her touch, her mouth, the ecstasy she brought me, each moment of surrender quieted the noise, soothed the chaos, allowed me to finally rest. She didn't need to say much; her role was clear. Good girls don't need words. She was my good girl until the night she wasn't. When she chose defiance, when she hid the proof of her work, swallowing it down without my permission, marked the onset of a more challenging phase: discipline. This was where our journey took a sharp turn, the true challenge of shaping and molding desire now took center stage. Submission is a fleeting high, teasing the edges of satisfaction but never fully landing. Obedience, though, that's where the real relief is. It's sustainable, dependable, like a drug that actually works. When everything falls into place, perfect and controlled, that's when I'm at peace. There's a blur where fantasy and reality meet, where desire's raw truth comes through. Society looks away, but I don't. My fingers curl into her blonde hair, soft but careless, like she didn't even try today. I hold her close, watching each second tick by as six of my nine inches fills her throat, cutting off her air. Her eyes widen, watering, her head jerking against my grip. I watch her gasp, her lips stretched around me, chest heaving as she fights for breath. I wonder, does this punishment fit the crime? My mind drifts, searching for the line, wondering if it's been crossed, my mind slipping back to a different time, to her. The redhead who ***ted my world in vibrant shades. She was twenty. I was barely twenty-three, still learning the boundaries of control. Her protests echoed off the walls. "Please don't," she'd plead, her voice trembling as I secured the straps around her legs. "One warning," I'd say, my tone as tight as the binds holding her down. Tracing her skin, so fair, so trusting of me to honor her boundaries, my pulse quickens. *** isn't the path to enlightenment here; our training is a dialogue, a mutual understanding. I'm attuned to her, to the subtleties of her reactions, to the unspoken desires that whisper from the curve of her form. I savor the push to the brink, those moments when she's teetering on the edge of climax before I yank her back, the frustration written in the bite of her lip, the goosebumps rising under my hands. It becomes a cycle, a rhythm of denial and anticipation, repeated over and over until her body betrays her, exhaustion setting in, her endurance slowly eroding with each moment of restraint. Hours fade away, her mental strength slipping, the effort glistening in the sweat on her brow. I offer her a sip of cold water, my voice calm but probing, "What did we learn?" Her answer, whispered, fragile, ignites something deep inside me. "Failure is not an option." Her words hit deep. Perfection. That's what I demand, from her, from myself. Anything less is unbearable. "Do you want release?" I ask, fingers weaving through her hair, gentle but in control. A nod, her need barely contained. "Tomorrow morning," I tell her, setting the stage for a deeper test. "Touch yourself before then, and you'll be back here quicker than you think." I free her from the restraints, knowing the real punishment begins now, in the wait, in the anticipation. Maybe it was the bond born from shared trauma, or the foundation of clear communication and ground rules we built before we dove into our dynamic. Back then, with her, it was about creation, about carving out our space. We channeled energy into building something, not tearing it down with harsh correction or discipline. But that was then. Now, I stand in front of this creature with hair like sun-bleached wheat, her voice ripping through the air. "Hurt me, God, hurt me," she screams, as if *** is her only language. She doesn’t want adoration; she craves suffering. The only command she listens to is when I tell her to open her legs or her mouth. Everything else is a battle. Spits when I say swallow, swallows when I want her to spit. She cums when she shouldn't, her pussy tightening around me with every climax as I push deeper, ignoring my attempts to deny her. And then I take her further, into the places she's not used to. Her body tense, resisting as I breach the territory less traveled, her discomfort etched in every twitch, every clenched muscle. Yet somehow, even in her discomfort, she still claws at pleasure, defying me again, finding release when I want to take it from her. She makes it hers, even when it shouldn't be. Her mouth becomes the battleground where I *** the last vestiges of her defiance to submit, every thrust a reminder of who's in control. All she has to do is surrender, to stop this pointless resistance, and peace would be hers. But she won't. She pushes back, clinging to her rebellion, and it spills out of her, choking on it, as if her power lies in the struggle itself. Our safe word, complex and deliberate, has never passed her lips in the nine months we've been at this. Not once. Now she's exposed, restrained in my living room, her dignity stripped away as I try to instill some humility. Frustration boils inside me. "Did you learn your lesson?" I ask, voice tight. My hand, aching from repeated impact, meets her skin again, ***ting it in deep purples and bruised blues against the pale canvas beneath me. Her answer is a smirk, a bold "No," as if daring me to go further. Disappointment tightens my grip on her hair, pulling her back for leverage. Her pussy, dry and unresponsive, tells the story of how long she's endured. But I don't hesitate. I spit sharply into my palm, then *** my way into her. There's nothing gentle in the way I take her. Each thrust is primal, laced with frustration, as her moans of "I love it, God, I love it" mock my authority, driving me deeper into her. She's on all fours, trembling, her knees spread wide as I drive into her. Our bodies lock together, the *** of each movement rippling through her skin. It's raw, brutal. Each time I pull her hair, forcing her head back, her face twists in a mix of *** and pleasure. She grips the sheets like her life depends on it, every thrust sending shockwaves through her body, her moans turning to cries. Then, as her right hand drifts up to stroke her face, trying to hold herself together under the overwhelming flood of sensation, it becomes clear there is no punishment here. No control. Her face says it all. Every slap, every thrust, every bruise, I'm giving her exactly what she wants. My attempt to break her is just feeding the hunger she craves. And I'm losing. The effort wears on me, sweat dripping down as proof of the intensity. I hit the peak for the sixth time today, but it offers no clarity, no tranquility. It's hollow, empty, ruined by her defiance. She follows me over the edge, her climax mocking mine, her lack of obedience tainting the release. Instead of the calm that should settle over me, I'm left restless, unsettled. My nights won't be any better for it. It's in this exhaustive state that a thought crosses my mind, a sharp awareness of how far we've strayed from the original expectations of our agreement. Drained and frustrated, I pull out of her, releasing my hold as she tumbles from the bed, her laughter trailing behind her, an echo of satisfaction I can't share. The conflict inside me burns, torn between two subs, polar opposites in every way. One relationship, built on mutual respect and trust, easy to explain to the outside world. The other, darker, raw, shaped by the cravings of my young partner, whose essence thrives on the sadistic. Society would tell me this hunger has no place behind white picket fences, but I've learned that in the tangled web of modern connection, there's a match for every desire, no matter how dark. But not here. Not with me. Today, I see it clearly: the girl with golden hair is not the balance I need. I tried to break it off, but her plea for one more chance extended this charade for another four months. And still, she never understood. It was never about the physical, the primal, or the dark fantasies that creep into the mind. Those were pieces of something larger. I was searching for devotion, a surrender that went deeper than just surface obedience, a connection she couldn't offer. And therein lay my epiphany: Could what I mistook for shallow compliance actually have been her cunning way to fulfill her own desires for the intense, raw encounters she yearned for? Was our dynamic, one I believed to be grounded in control and submission, actually a battleground for dominance, throwing off the equilibrium I so valued? It dawns on me that perhaps, in the midst of passion that blinds and binds, the most glaring signs were overlooked, camouflaged by the ecstasy of the experience.
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