Every bone in my body tells me that what I am doing is wrong. As a reporter, throwing yourself into your job comes with the territory, but the deeper I go, the more I worry. Now here I am in a man's hand who wants me to call him Master and I'm struggling with the fact that I may not hate it...
He isn't tender. His breath reeks of tobacco as he finds my neck. I can feel the bristled hairs on his chin against my own smooth skin. He pulls me even closer to him as he fumbles with his own shirt. Wrinkled flesh engulfs me when he gets it off. I quiver when I hear him unzip his pants. I can't catch my breath as he spins me around to face him. His eyes blaze into my own with a sense of ownership that cannot be mimicked.
"You're different," he tells me as he runs his fingers through my coarse hair. Even blow dried there is a coarseness that wraps around his thick fingers. He seems to like it as he runs his nose over it.
"I believe your fear," he says slowly taking my chin in his hands, "I love it."
My fear is very real. I had never thought I'd be in this place and what's worse is there are moments when I think I enjoy it. For instance, right now he is blowing along my neck in a way that makes my nipples harden. My body is betraying me.
He is feeling my wetness between his fingers. His hands are overly invasive. More invasive are his fingers in my mouth when he makes me taste it. I've never tasted myself before and with him probing me it becomes less about the taste and more about the lack of choice that comes with it.
