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My name is your cry, disbelief at the humiliating, nasty, painful things My Girl is forced to do -- in the backseat, the woods, the mall, in bathrooms -- everywhere. But when I hold you close afterward, stroking you, and letting you know how much My Girl has pleased me, it is all ok. You find yourself silently wishing for the next time, growing wetter, hardly able to wait -- for the next terrible instructions.
No, I am not for pure sweet girls, all sugar and spice, who want nothing but cuddling and a bit of naughty play. My Girl doesn't understand why she needs to do the terrible things she allows, but she must.
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