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Patchwork Quilt

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(In which Char has to keep a diary of playtimes)


It’s a patchwork quilt of images. Flashes

in fits and spurt, like an old movie stuttering

on the wheel. A wandering hand down

the back of my pants in the store, a secret touch

just inches from wondering eyes. Dropping my

gaze away in the bedroom and pressing

my face to your chest. Hiding. A fizz of defiance

and then my underwear, cutting into me

as you pulled it taut, brought me up and onto

my tiptoes. My head yanked back, braids fisted

in your hand. Mouth defiled.


Then there are longer moments. Bent over and

gripping the table. Squealing out “Thank you, Sir”

as the crack of your hand and the wrapping fronds

of the flogger create blooms of *** on my ass.

Your face, staring down at me as your body presses

mine into the bed. Hands held uselessly up by my head,

my hips lifting and searching for the connection with



A jump in time. The pinwheel racing over my lace

covered cunt. Squeaking and squirming and trying

to stand still. Your hand on my throat, tight, a halo

of gold shimmering around your head as your eyes

hold mine and your voice murmurs at me to relax.

Breathe. Be in the moment. Choking of a different sort,

as I try to take you all the way down. Gagging, retching,

returning immediately for more. My tongue on your balls,

your cock, slick with my saliva, pressed against my face.


Then a pause. A reset. Laughing at nothing, words

vanishing from my mind. Warmth, connection. Openness.

My self-consciousness checked in at the door. Going to

places I didn’t know I could go; didn’t know I wanted

to go. Tongue questing at new flesh; moaning as flesh

quested at a new place. Your eyes, holding me there and

keeping me safe. Playing with myself, legs spread

for you to see. Pulses of an orgasm that I didn’t have

to chase. A night turned into moments, crystal clear

in my memory, stitched together with a sense that I

am safe to let go. To be yours.


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