I think I love my Mr Man, he makes me … well he makes me cum. He makes me smile, and I feel so very cosy and safe and protected when he’s with me. He helps me stop being a character in my own head and makes me a real life person, when he’s with me. But that’s not love, not all of it, not enough of it. We haven’t seen each other in six weeks, but he wont let me leave him, wont tell me he loves me, but won’t let me leave him.
I got smacked with a Tefal frying pan full of cooked ketamine last night, I don’t remember much except that being whacked with a cold, hard, flat, metal object hurts like the dickens and makes me cum like a bitch. Oh and I was re-reminded that I like a face full of giz.
It was odd the gentleman in question didn’t enter me. He smacked me with his frying pan, and whipped me with my belt, he ate my pussy and hugged me, kissed me, made me giggle and alternated between playing me and playing for me.
I often feel my Mr Man only penetrates me… enters me so that he go again, leaves nothing behind. We don’t bond we fuck well, very well.
When he’s not with me, I run reels of edited, mental footage of ‘us’, I cling to the him in my head that’s not that bad, and love that man. I do that a lot.
But I woke up this morning with a sore bum that he could not of given me, I woke up with a sore bum on the other side of town, with a Gentleman more my own age, having done what people my age do (got fucked up and fucked (ish)) and felt not ill at ease but in unfamiliar territory, and oddly enough happy.