poupeebrisse

SIMPLY AN ASIDE: I now recall my days at Wellesley College. About Claudia my RA taking possession and with me coming under her protection. She became my big sister. I remember when we first met. I caught her glancing at me across the table at the Clapp library. This is how I would see her almost every day. We initially never spoke, but I held her image in the forefront of my mind. I would see her from the corner of my eyes. And, yes, she noticed me. We soon became roommates and sometimes we even double-dated. We shared the same clothes and the same shoes and the same sexual appetite. Like many of my friends Claudia hated to write papers. I love writing English papers. I wrote her papers and she collected the grades. Ours was a simple relationship at first. Of course I often wondered if Professor Cudjoe would ever grow suspicious of us. Like in most 'all woman colleges’, there was always a shortage of the more fashion oriented types or more femme driven girls, in contrast to the myriad of political 'lipstick lesbians' and the hard bitten 'baby butches' with their cropped short hair, masculine-style clothing, their pert chestnut bobs and plenty of attitude. But since I was already then inclined towards wearing high heels, studio dresses, designer scarves and dousing myself in gallons of perfume, this made me a perfect target for yet other distant admirers slipping unanimous notes of suggestions under my door a night. I now see the photos of Claudia spread out on the table in front of me; I am flooded with a thousand memories: Her dominant side always intrigued me. She was born in Hamburg, Germany and I admired her sturdy ambiance; her German decisiveness. She moved with the authority of a man, but with a sway and sensuality of a woman. When she entered a room, the room slowly began to revolve around Claudia. It was uncanny how her presence alone would bring out the most personal fantasies within me. I knew that, sooner or later, she would destroy me with her desire, but it was a destruction that I greedily anticipated. Yes, for me Claudia promised much more than she could ever know as we shared a private world of dreams and secrets; discovering that we had so much in common. When I write of her now, her eyes are upon me; time is powerless to diminish the intensity of her gaze. I want to collect those moments over and over again when she stepped inside herself and then reemerging as the ‘Untouchable.’ I still see her now in the shades and sly shadows of all our evenings; in all cities. Listen, this maybe sounds all too maudlin and with finding those moments that we stumbled over on rough brick streets.

WHO AM I NOW? He loved woman painted and pouty. And especially those women with his exacting detailed D/s desires and fetishes. I was standing in front of a full-length mirror in the bright make-up lights of my room. He was standing behind me, the lights slick in his face, and tightening the laces of my corset, which becomes my second skin, my skin of pain. Listens to my breath catch. He never wants to let go. He wants to pull me tighter and tighter. Me lovingly exhaling short moments of my exquisite and constricting pleasure. The pain and the pleasure mix; they exclude all other moments; they are my only reality. This is all part of my rituals. Rituals are a necessary part of my life: they are like the watch spring that gives motion to the workings of a fine timepiece. To follow the metaphor, my rituals give purpose and movement to the omnivorous demands of my D/s fetishes.

MASKS ARE MAGICAL AND ENRICH MY LIFE: It is much easier to be yourself behind the anonymous security of a mask. Both theatrically and psychologically. For me masks are freedom- “Outlaw Freedom.” The Lone Ranger, Batman and Robin, Zorro, the Riddler, the Black Canary: these are all characters beyond the constraints of society. Whether you pull on a mask or paint on a mask with cosmetics, the effect is the same; i.e. you acquire the freedom to step beyond the confines of your social strata, your moral milieu, ones catholic upbringing. Foundation, rouge, eye-shadow, lipstick, wigs--all of these divine artifices allow me as well much more leeway than I would normally have to accent different aspaspects of my personality, or often the personality or role my D/s lover is expecting me to assume.

THE VILLA D’ESTE: A most provocative hotel with a provocative imagery. It always brings memories of an old Europe, grand hotels, opulent baroque villas, a château, romantic journeys on steam trains, and an aristocracy with strict dress codes, protocols and elegant manners. Where elegant women may float in exotic surroundings and in their erotic D/s moments. There were quite a few house guests around, so we waited for taking a few risqué photos on the grand marble staircase from the entrance foyer and arched-ceiling lobby. He wanted my ballerinas doing their dance from this vantage point, surrounded by the sparkling glass chandeliers, immense floral arrangements and gold-framed works of art being on full display. So we waited until everyone had left for lunch. Except for the staff, and they are always very discreet. For me ‘The Villa d’Este’ is always a place with the most sensuous surroundings and a fascinating history. I was his history that day. His whore, his little schoolgirl, his most ferocious wet dream, his fantasy submissive...”Nel blu de pinto de blu”…or for me evoking a “joie de vivre.” Later evening drinks in the elegant Casanova Bar.

BILLBOARDS HAVE A LIFE ON THEIR OWN: I now remember a billboard right outside Banning, California advertising Montclair Cigarettes. The cropping of the ad was very tight. I was looking at a full face and upper torso of a woman. She is holding a cigarette in one hand and her lips are pursed and red, as if she is saying 'Ohhh'. Her body language taking that single sound she was mouthing and seemed to aim it directly at me. The pose with the cigarette and her hand is a bit too exaggerated and almost like mimicking Joan Crawford. There was something about this ad that made my body and between my legs feel as if it were being fanned by a thousand gossamer-like butterfly wings. As I write this, sharing this moment with you, I want you to share this feeling with me: as it is so subtle and yet so overpowering. Her palest ivory foundation. Penciled brows. Lipliner pencil that shapes a full pout. Theatrical pairs of long lashes carefully applied. Deeper hollows beneath her cheekbones; bright red rouge on the bones and a shimmering powdered highlighter along the inside curve of her rouge. Her look driving me deeper and deeper into the cruder areas of my imagination where 'sex' rhymes with 'slut' and with my own femininity laying bare to explore my extremes of sight, sound and touch that can't even begin to exist in any conventional world of sexual energy. For me it started being a shudder, then a 'frisson'. I am trying to describe a feeling that perhaps is beyond sexual, a feeling that catches one unaware and leaves one quivering with vague anticipation and a bit of apprehension. This is definitely not a feeling that you want to descend upon you at the office in the middle of a board meeting, leaving you squirming in your seat trying to focus on facts and figures of your company's new advertising campaign. Sitting here now I wished in having taken a photograph of the Banning billboard and with the non-descript Banning cityscape looming in the background.

COME AND SHARE YOUR MOMENTS WITH ME: Those which may envelope us with its dark blanket of a thousand possibilities! And I instinctively know that once I finally find the right one...I will hold him tightly; pressing him within the pages of my life as you might press a rose within the pages of a favourite book. Allowing the pages to suck the very essence of the rose: the scent of rose; the somewhat private scent of memory. And then...comme le vent, je suis libre. Like the wind, we are free.

DOLLS FASCINATE ME: It started many years ago. At the time he came without notice; he left without notice. When he was in town he wanted me totally to himself: I had to break all other appointments; give myself completely to him. He called me his “poupée brisée”, his 'broken doll'. What are these sexual playthings; these little sexual manikins? Yet, when I paint and pout in front of my makeup mirror, I see my face becoming more abstract, more doll-like. Most of my personal pictures here are very much doll-like! Like a dream come true for a submissive like me. I like the French word for doll, poupée. Visage de poupée. Visage de putain. Doll's face. Whore's face. The difference between doll and whore is not so great; the two merge to form one grossly exciting persona.

ONE OF MY TRIGGERS: A stern interview and interrogation. I arrived dressed in a short sleeved A-line navy striped school dress uniform and parading about as a perfect little and aging schoolgirl slut. Tiptoeing delicately on my mandatory ballerinas and trying to balancing myself precariously on point, welcoming his hands and enticing him to touch me more. Blindfolding, dirty talk, the collar & leash and pussy whipping increasing my more positive responses. He drilling down on my weaknesses, while forcing me in full display to masturbate my cunt and as my reward following-up with a pussy whipping. I loved how his expert hands and filthy fuck words make me feel. Every nerve in my body is jumping and pinching and screaming for him. My eyes reflecting ecstasy behind their heavy blue kohl and the flutter of my long false lashes, and my lips that have been over-painted with layer upon layer of rotund Machiavellian mauves. I am at the mercy of my needy lips. I am his classic suck and cum slut!

I SIMPLY WANT TO PLEASE and that is the source of my vulnerability. Wanting to relinquish all power; and to be the soft receptacle of all the fantasies of the world. Puffed lips, bound breasts, wide full ass, and hips like handles to grasp as he pumps the hard sharp edges of his sexual fantasies into my receptive submissive dream body. When together with my MAN I love to be kept in a continued state of sexual readiness and service..."A proverbial bitch in heat!" What more could I possibly ever want?

MEMORIES OF DAYS GONE BY! I spend some time in Washington, D.C on T-Street, NW near Adams Morgan. This is where I met Danny he was living in Chevy Chase at the time. We first started to exchange fantasies on FetLife. In his fantasies, I was chained to a wall in his basement, painted and gaudy, my uplifted breasts bound and reeking of cheap perfume in which he drenched the black baby doll he made me wear and which caressed my ass like the lick from his tongue. He making me wearing long tight black fingerless leather gloves; a black front buckled latex corset with gartered black FF nylons and my feet-laced tightly into black leather boots with five-inch spike heels hobbled together so that I could barely move. He was standing close in front of me, looking straight at me. Watching my 'over-painted' and pouting red Chanel suck-lips and my eyes impressionable behind their black kohl and the heavy flutter of my long theatrical lashes. With that I instinctively knew that he was seeing nothing but the demons of his very own multi-sexual fantasies and leaving me jerking against my bonds, tottering on my heels, weak-kneed. He would keep me secured like this, standing, arms stretched above my head and chained in front of a full length mirror. The smell of the perfume gagging me; it was thick in the room like a dense sexual fog. I was bound in a dark and silent place, my mouth later stuffed with my soiled panties and stoppered like the effervescence contained as securely as the bubbles in a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. By then I was already dazed and lolling in my bondage, completely cum drunk. My tits jutting out and my mouth opened wide and receptive for a hard Cock. I thought it would however be a shame to let my bound breasts not getting properly decorated and sprayed with his cum. Or he attaching a few bells to my tits and telling me that if I make any noise things will get worse for me, knowing that they will make a racket even when I tried to stay completely still. Good for him, my very sensitive pussy was now a hair trigger. In a windowless room, the concepts of day and night held no sway; people and places from the breadth of my life appeared to visit and watching my mute torment. I then remembered that sensory deprivation only augments the sharpness of memory. My thoughts: “Dear Danny please stroke me harder, than much faster, much faster, I would whisper and moaning like a pregnant cow and his bitch as his flogger finally started to 'violin' the slit of my needy wet Cunt and me begging for his permission to cum." I usually cum very easy and always cum hard by shrieking for his utter delight! This was his fantasy; it made him wet with desire, keeping his Cock hard and his desire to finally rewarding me with a facial cum bath. His words: “There is no greater gift for a bitch in being branded like this by her Master.”For him I was his ultimate collectible; his fantasy slut; his aging schoolgirl-whore. 'I want your tits pushed up', he said, 'fat and full like a cow ripe with milk.' I dressed to please him, pulling my bleached hair tightly back; darkening my lips with layer upon layer of glistening paint. I pulled a black Lycra top over my bound breasts. I am your bitch, I thought. There are moments like this that arouse my every sense sight, sound, smell, touch, taste so that they become indelibly impressed upon the pages of memory. At night, when I am alone, I often flip though my book of memories and, frequently, most think and linger on this particular page, because the moment of my entry into Danny's ‘tour-de-force’ was to become a portal to some of the most extravagantly outrageous moments of my already extravagantly outrageous life. My attached personal photos here perhaps should tell my story further and validate what Danny was actually seeing and possessing.

HE ONLY SAID HELLO: Indeed my profile here is rather descriptive. On purpose since profiles supposed to be telling a complete story! Getting the point across and the basics out of the way! It’s always a delight in getting an actual message from someone, rather than most here just ‘reacting’ to my pictures with a simple “How Are You Today?” I thought that to be much different as I provided within my journals here more than a truckload of my information and very specific details about my likes, fetishes and escapades including their particular circumstances and times. Thus messages for me with more than a few words of interest remain scarce to say the least! Over the past month alone I received over 150 responses and most about my posted personal pictures. Those are a lot of ships having passed me in the night! What can I say? What more is there to say to shine the light in red and green?   

MORE ABOUT CLAUDIA: I visited with her for the last time when she retired early in Avignon. Again we had something in common, as I retired early as well and right after my father passed a few months before and leaving me independent as well of any livelong responsibilities. My mind is now full of hyper romantic fantasies…and I will take-out the SL tonight and drive again out to Joshua Tree. My CD’s over and over playing my favorite ‘Viktor Lazlo’ love songs, bringing me closer in meeting my ‘Soulmate’ whom I imagined having kissed over a thousand times. But I instinctually know that my demons will never allow someone like him to ever crossing the threshold of my mid-century fairway home. Gibbering and wanting to keep me entrapped within the walls in the prison of my mind!

MY PERSONAL PICTURES: It must be noted that not all of my posted photos here are successful, but I felt that all of these should be accompanied with specific feelings, commentaries and impressions of the times when the photos were taken. Following in my journals here will be a complete description of those extravagant photo days and escapades.. There is always something about my photos that pulls my memory vividly back to that first of many days. I am haunted by memories from a past that is not mine. I often become ensnared by the soul of a photograph. The personality of the subject reaches out to me; enters through my eyes; seeps into my blood; possesses me. I am afraid of photos and because of this fear I collect thousands of photos--wherever, whenever, whomever. I keep these photos in a large old straw suitcase under my bed. It is my ‘Pandora's Box.’ When I open the suitcase I never know what image will grab me; never know whose memories will try to live again through my eyes.

MOMENTS OF BLISS: My life is filled with hundreds of short memories like this; my journals grow fat with these stories. Short moments. Often these bits and pieces are more flavorful to me than rowdy nights of sex: there is something special about these snippets of moist sensuality in the midst of conservative upper class surroundings. I am a 'touchy-feely' person and I take great pleasure in rubbing and massaging (or being rubbed and massaged) in public places. Automobiles, airplanes, restaurants, business meetings, churches, weddings, funerals...there is no time or place that I find inappropriate for sensual encounters.

BONDAGE IN ITS VARIOUS FORMS has always held a special fascination for me. I was about eighteen years old when I finally found the strength to pushing away from the rigidity of personality imposed on me by the years of strict Roman Catholic discipline. Starting to break free and by moving into a most extreme direction. Having tossed off the yoke of my church indoctrination; and moving farther and farther away from the nuns with their musty odor of sanctity and self-deprivation. In the constriction of bondage I now feel a sense of redemption--a redemption far deeper than my Catholic school upbringing when I knelt on a wooden step in a dark confessional and told a priest of the erotic thoughts that, in my youthful ignorance, I felt were keeping me from a state of grace. A LIFE CHANGING EVENT: I now remember in the sixth grade, standing in front of the classroom for having been heard to say the word "sex". The nun, Sister Gilda standing in front of me, swathed in black from head to toe. She is a harsh-faced woman and her eyes speak volumes about unfulfilled desires. Her lips were hard from lying fallow so very long; hard from a thousand chanted prayers; hard from years of self-deprivation. My hands are out in front of me, palms up. I am forced to stand there rigid, legs locked tightly together. Sister Gilda is smiling at me, relishing the punishment she is about to inflict. Her arm swings back and the wooden pointer she holds smacks down across my palms. The first hit is the worst; after that my palms burn with hell's very own fires, but I learn to suck in the pain, and it warms my body. The pointer slams down again and again, and I watch her large breasts, under the black cloth, heave from the exertion of the punishment. My classmates sit and watch as Sister Gilda and I become one integrated sadomasochistic tableau. I love this nun as much as I hate her; it is only much later in life that I will truly understand just how much I really learned from these repressed women in black.

STILETTOS: The quintessential fetish object. “I do have some Rules...The heels always stay on” he would say! He knew that wearing high heels or when told walking or swaying for him on my 6-inch ballerinas, was like body-sculpting, reflecting my emotional aspects. And that the precariousness of extremely high heels showing some of my underlining vulnerability and dependence. For him it was also all about me falling forward off the shoes pulling my ass in tight to stay upright, so my sexuality for him was more RAW, on the outside.

URLAUB BIS ZUM WECKEN: And then there was Philippe, he was from Hanover, Germany. I often think back on our very first days at the Steigenberger Grandhotel in Heringsdorf, but then perhaps, it is better to remember those moments without wanting more. We originally met on the German 'JoyClub' site and started to exchange fantasies! I remember when we first met in the flesh and every word he said! I remember catching him glancing at me from around the corner of his smile. I remember capturing the reflection of his eyes. This was the sort of thing that made life interesting - meeting people. In my venal way I knew from the very beginning that I must sleep with him. Having him feel my lips as I apply another thick coat of brilliant red. I hoped that he was pleased that we shared those magical last short hours on the sea before the morning light could push its harsh reality upon our dreams and through the purple hues from the hotels table-lamp and the thin slats of light sifting in past the heavy curtains. Afterwards we never saw each other again…and I never was to finding him again in my reality, and it was only in my dreams in which he helped me to fill the spaces of my imagination and longings when my nights stretched off into endless infinite seconds.

A MAN FOR ALL MY SEASONS: Perhaps I should write a story about him bringing me closer to his existence? Continuity of the storyline is not important. What is important is placing words on a page. As long as I continue to write I will be OK. I know that any segments of my story about him will be written out of order, because this is how I want to imagining him. This is the order dictated by my fantasy about him. I close my eyes and the bits and pieces spin around me like pieces of a sensual puzzle. Sometimes I am successful; at other times the pieces lie mismatched, strewn about; shards of story, emotion, sight, scent jumbled willy-nilly. I am noticing the small details. Our nights and days, Veuve Clicquot and being nervous with his arms around me. I want, but I am afraid of what I want and as his desires bringing him closer to me. He kisses me behind the ear, he lifts up my hair and kisses me on the neck, he putting his hands up under my dress and gently but possessively cupping my cunt. All this happens very quickly, I know it's him, though I can't see him. I don't mind, nor do I move, my eyes are closed. He softly squeezes my nipples; his hands playing me gently like an instrument. I dimly wonder how he knows where I liked to be touched, but I don't want to stop the moment. I am trying in pushing my thighs together, trapping his hand in my crotch. My thighs quivering as he forces his fingers into my slit and into the shrine that my wet lips guard. My pussy neatly trimmed and manicured and with just a thin almost perfect hairline running along my pussy slit. But for now and today I will regretfully keep on staring at his appended picture on my make-up mirror and to feel what fantasy truly feels like.

THIS IS FOR YOU DANNY: I was lost in the wanton landscape of his robust sexuality. He poured over my nipples; over my smooth breasts; over my tight stomach; my strong thighs; my vibrant sex. I was a long-suffering martyr to his love, breathing the sweet salt perfume of his steaming body, his eyes teasing and imploring, his lips playing symphonies on the nerves of my body. The somewhat metallic taste of our dinner wine was still on his lips, his lips that sucked my fantasies into hard realities. Time was seeping away into the hot sticky night. Images: When we are together like this in the late darkness, we are true artisans of the night, shaping and molding our D/S moments into something viable. We encapsulate ourselves in these moments while outside the world has been reduced to only a rough figment of distant sights and sounds. Why bother to think of the outside world: we are enough in our here-and-now. Images: my bright carmine lipstick smeared around my mouth; my pelvis glued to his; feeling the love bite on my neck where he has sucked my flesh hard against his teeth. I imagined that if I had another chance to relive my life, I would find someone like him…one with whom I could exchange and share such moments of exquisite love…and give myself to him completely.

REMEMBRANCES: My thoughts tonight making me going back in time to Mr. Bouchard my former French teacher extraordinaire. It was he who first insisted in dressing for him and to his exacting specifications. Being his aging schoolgirl slut! A ‘Polka Dotted Dress’ never failed to be on the agenda and I instantly knew that with him I had had cum to the right address. When we first met he was always very particular about woman and felt attracted to only those with exacting and detailed fetish desires and D/s preferences. Ultimately he remarked: “These qualities would make them very special and finding them would be like looking for a needle in a haystack? It appeared that I had made the cut and then later his test of time. Many of my lovers throughout cherished the statement my tits and rouged nipples made and the way my pressed and naked cunt was showing through my polka dotted dresses. The dresses after I cut-out all of the lining so that the dress became almost transparent. Seeing my pussy, tits and the outline of my garters right through the thin fabric made their Cock hard. Besides later in our days together many loved the feel by cupping my pussy mount right through the thin polka dotted fabric. I guessed that palming and holding my perfectly manicured cunt-bush gave him them a certain sense of ownership and possession? ‘Palming my cunt Mr. Bouchard told me was making a physical connection and having me feeling my true submissive purpose in life. Later I was made to prancing for him on my fantastic collection of ballerinas all about his parquet floor like a spastic flamenco dancer in heat. Polka dots for him in full fuck-me-now motion. I wanted to vibrate beneath his fingers. I wanted him to tasting my whorish red painted nails. Red nails that stroked my lips and played with my pussy so he could taste my passion on them. I still recall the constriction of the tight corset he made me wear, grabbing my breasts, forcing my tits outward for their display and he then removing my panties, and I would lie across his knees as he spanked me at first gently and then harder and harder, all the while driving out of his system his lusts for me! There was a run in my black nylon hose from heel to my cunt, he took his nails and tore at the run and then left me laying there on the couch wearing his CUM.

ALICE THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS: My writing environment indeed is more often than not erotically atmospheric. For me to making my stories tick I need to work in a constant state of sexual arousal….which seems to escalate my writings more rich and deep and immersive. My anticipation building as layers and levels are stripped away. All radiant depravities: including spanking, whipping, service submission, orgasm control, bondage, Cock worship and magical aftercare. I guess these feelings have always been there – like my demons hiding in the deeps. Feelings like my ‘Wall to Wall’ mirrors one in front, one behind. My reflection bouncing back and forth between the opposing panes – reflections reflecting reflections – echoing off as reflections in my mind.

A HOT FRENZY WITH ICE CUBES: I now remember the bed where we laid draped across each other; my hair damp with exertion plastered across my pale cheeks; but we added the trappings of civilization: Drinking Margaritas. He cooling my hot frenzy with ice cubes, the ice rubbed slowly over my hard nipples, their melting water dribbling between my hot thighs. I was naked except for my black open-finger leather gloves that guided his hand holding the ice cube with cold, smooth precision, and basting his ears with unreal suggestions; broiling his body with the lisping lashes of my febrile imagination.

THE SENSE OF AVAILABILITY I FIND EXTREMELY EROTIC: Foundation, rouge, eye-shadow, lipstick, wigs--all of these divine artifices have allowed me much more leeway than I would normally have to accent different aspaspects of my personality...or, to temporarily assume aspaspects of some other personality that might intrigue my lover. Little aging Catholic schoolgirl, streetwise slut, dour secretary, French maid, a whore, a night duty Nurse: there are basically no restrictions on the personalities I may assume. Thus most definitely I am more comfortable with face as fetish: A ‘Doll Face’ abstracted from time and place--short on content, but long on fantasy. I remember now…it was for moments like this that Thierry lived: they were his true raison d'être. When he ordered for me, he told the maître d' that he was ordering for 'his little girl'.

I CAN FEEL HIM COME ALIVE WITHIN ME: Some days when I'm alone I spend time fantasizing about certain types of men. A 'Man For All Seasons;' accompanied with my never-ending hyper romantic fantasies. There is a photo of a MAN… that I taped to my makeup mirror. His ground is covered with dead leaves which heightens the romanticism of the image. I am trying to understand the other side of him, wanting to explore his extravagant and our clandestine encounter in the baroque decadence of a château or the master bedroom of a private villa and with my red stiletto’s gleaming like lipstick. My emotions mix; visual imagery swirls. I am wearing a mask-my mask of pale, palest ivory and lips of red; my eyes expressionless behind their black kohl and the heavy flutter of my lashes. His face in the photo haunts me. Perhaps in another incarnation he will be on my side and holding me tight and safe. I masturbate when I think of him. 

DOLLS FASCINATE ME: It started many years ago. At the time he came without notice; he left without notice. When he was in town he wanted me totally to himself: I had to break all other appointments; give myself completely to him. He called me his “poupée brisée”, his 'broken doll'. What are these sexual playthings; these little sexual manikins? Yet, when I paint and pout in front of my makeup mirror, I see my face becoming more abstract, more doll-like. Most of my personal pictures here are very much Doll-like! Like a dream come true for a submissive like me. I like the French word for doll, poupée. Visage de poupée. Visage de putain. (Doll's face. Whore's face.) The difference between doll and whore is not so great; the two merge to form one grossly exciting persona.

MY DREAM LOVER: Believe me when I tell you that I KNOW what you want: we share the same dream. And I instinctively know that once I finally find the right one...I will hold him tightly; pressing him within the pages of my life as you might press a rose within the pages of your favorite book. Allowing the pages to suck the very essence of the rose: the scent of rose; the somewhat private scent of memory. And then like the wind, we are free!

YES...FOR THE RIGHT ONE - "I WANT TO BE HIS BITCH:" To my delight one of his dictates always included for his submissive wearing stilettos and which was to become a ‘standard fare’ in all of our sessions. The shoes however may change but the tottering never would. Yes, stilettos were one of his quintessential fetishes. His rules always the same: “The heels stay on including the ankle strap padlocks.” Once the session started it would always be played through! To walking for him was like me doing a fuck-dance, my ass and cunt and tits being in full motion and readily available for inspection and fondling. This was making his COCK hard. Indeed I was looking forward in being taught the correct walk on my black 6-inch ballet boots, greatly enhancing my overall body sculpting and the outline of my calve muscles. Then being forced to wearing an intense corset with a wide posture collar keeping me in shape and in form. Then ordered sitting high on a barstool in the middle of the room, to Hitachi masturbate myself in full exhibition pushing the envelope even further of my erotic style and dramatization.