The Gifted Brunette

[al****]

This chapter delves into my personal journey, exploring the complex layers of my kinks and self-identity. Through revisiting old tapes, I closely examine past experiences and the emotions they evoked. This reflective exercise is not just about discerning right from wrong, but more crucially, it's a quest to reconnect with my long-lost kinks and guide myself towards genuine happiness. Additionally, it aids in defining my role and aspirations as a Dom.
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The nine***-year-old brunette on her knees, adorned with captivatingly full breasts, was a gift from the blonde at her side, herself only twenty. In a hushed tone, the blonde sought validation, "Did I do good, Daddy?" Daddy kinks aren't my thing; I neither correct her nor indulge her; she's just a playmate, unlike the true submissive redhead waiting for me at home.
"Do I deserve your big cock inside me?" she prods with another question, her voice laced with anticipation.
This blonde, she was always trying, but rarely hitting the mark. Pleasing me was a challenge; failure meant no reward, only lessons in disappointment. The brunette radiated potential. But I know promises are cheap. Only actions hold value, like diamonds among zirconium; her allure is undeniable, but is it genuine? I need to test her authenticity.
"Pull my cock out and put it in your mouth," I command, an order directed at the brunette. She responds without ***, without hesitation. Her eyes burn with a desire to please as she helps my pants fall to the floor. Her lips work fervently over the head of my cock; her hands, equally busy along the shaft. I acknowledge the blonde with a nod and a soft touch on her cheek, "Good girl," I affirm.
I guide the blonde's head closer to the brunette's and tell the latter, "Slow down, it's not a race." She's eager, as if in a sprint to the finish.
"Both of you, open your mouths," a dual directive.
The spectacle unfolds: two mouths ready, my hips and hands orchestrating their movements. It's a rhythm of threes; three deep thrusts in the blonde's throat, then three in the brunette's, and back again, a continuous dance of dominance. I assign their roles: "Focus on the head," to the brunette, "You, the shaft and balls," to the blonde, "And tongues, lots of it, and no hands," to both.
On her knees, the brunette synchronized her movements with rhythm, gradually taking more of me into her mouth and consequently leaving the blonde with diminishing territory. A rare delight, deep throating demands my full attention. I hand the camcorder to the blonde. "Keep recording," I say, capturing the moment that eludes my words.
In the large hotel mirror I watched my body respond instinctively, rhythmically, as if drawn by an unseen magnetic ***. I moved towards her, each thrust plunging deeper, challenging the very limits of nature. Words of encouragement rolled off my tongue, effortless, as I watched the brunette. Her eyes, unflinching and intense, she's like a sword swallower, every inch she takes a step closer to danger. This game of ours was not just physical but psychological, a game of push and pull, of give and take, a perfect image marred only by the blonde's visible frustration about being excluded from the act.
"Hand over the camera and get back into position," I command the blonde. Swiftly, she usurps the brunette's place with an eagerness that doesn't quite mask her lack of finesse. The brunette, in her element, leans in with a grace that speaks of devotion; her lips and tongue, in synchronized motion, ***t a picture of perfect harmony. The blonde, however, when her moment comes, falters. Her attempts are clumsy, hindered by a gag reflex that remains her nemesis. This struggle, messy and earnest, stirs a dark amusement in me; it's a mix of ego and desire, watching her flounder in her own desperation.
But then, the plot twists; the blonde, seizing a moment of power, begins to direct the brunette. Her voice laced with determination. "Don't stop until you gag," she orders, her hands firmly guiding her friend's head further down, exerting her newfound control. I watch, fascinated by the turn of events; the blonde, usually in the shadows of inadequacy, is now orchestrating the act, imposing a severe lesson in endurance on the brunette. The tears brimming in the brunette's eyes transform the act from mere physicality to a display of power dynamics, a trial of boundaries. It's a power play, a test of limits and with tensions rising, I reclaimed control, signaling a warning that I was about to cum. 
"Just like we discussed," the blonde reminds the brunette.
"Cum in my mouth," the brunette implores, and I comply, watching as she savors the moment with a languid swirl of her tongue. My gaze, almost mesmerized, follows the subtle, rhythmic contractions of her throat with each swallow, a hypnotic sight. Then, she shares a fraction of the bounty with the blonde, her lips waiting, expectant.
Her reaction was visceral, grimacing at the taste, yet obediently swallowed. Their reconciliation was sealed with a shared kiss. The act of sharing, a tangible manifestation of their submission and my control, is a final, triumphant assertion of dominance.
Basking in the afterglow, the blonde turns to me, her voice tinged with need, "Did I do good?" Her words seek validation, her plea for a reward follows, "I want you to fuck me so bad."
Her body, as if crafted for mine, responds almost instantly with orgasms upon penetration. It's simple for me, yet there's a profound satisfaction in knowing I can elicit a pleasure in her that she's never known before.
"You did very good," I assure her, my voice a blend of approval and command.
"Get on the bed," I direct.
I hand the camcorder to the brunette, "I want you to record."
She lies back, the classic pose; her legs d***d over my shoulders, my hands asserting control on her thighs. Her arousal is evident, a high-pitched moan escaping her as I enter. Though tempted to explore her breasts and stimulate her nipples, I find she's already self-engaged, her fingers working her clit in tandem with my movements. Her first orgasm arrives swiftly, her body a spectacle of screams, kicks, and contortions. I keep my pace deliberate and steady, navigating her through the breadth of her ecstasy until she gradually drifts back to reality.
As she regains her senses, I explore her body with my lips, drawing a line from her neck down to her breasts, lavishing attention on each nipple. I lean in closer, my kisses deepening along her neck, searching for that sweet spot, that extra inch that elicits her deepest moans. My thrusts grow more intense, purposeful with each motion. The silent exchange between the two women, as I immerse myself in the blonde, only fuels my arousal further. Their shared glances and subtle smiles, a silent language of friendship and shared pleasures only heighten the intensity of the moment.
In the hotel room, the air crackles with the raw energy of our bodies relentless connection and retreat. I'm lost in the intensity, pushing myself as hard as I can. Her body, a canvas of reaction, twists and tightens with each wave of orgasm, her hands locked behind her head in surrender. The blonde, needing support in the midst of this storm, finds solace in the brunette's touch. It's a potent sight, the brunette, ever so caring, strokes her hair, holds her hand as if guiding her through an intense journey. My arousal intensifies, driven by their connection, the walls might be shaking, and I imagine passersby in the hallway, startled by the piercing screams, until I reach that pivotal moment.
As the moment of climax nears, I find myself reconsidering my initial intention to finish on the brunette's ample chest, marking new territory. Instead I'm drawn to reach my climax within the blonde, riding the wave of aftershocks that that echo her body's own convulsions.
Afterward, I collapse into a chair, a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction. My juices, her fluids all dripping off my cock create a marbled pattern on the velour fabric. The blonde lies still, a picture of spent desire. I turn to the brunette, my voice demanding, 'Go lick up our mess." She complies without hesitation, positioning herself provocatively as she follows my order.
"It's really sensitive," the blonde whispers to the brunette, a statement that fills me with a sense of accomplishment. I sit back, reflecting on the night's events. Was it the act itself, the submission, the obedience that resonated with me, or something else entirely? Her orgasm, so vocal and unrestrained, had been a sight to behold. Watching the brunette's enticing movements, I realize the night's narrative is far from over. My mind wanders, her role tonight, aiding the blonde in her sexual journey, makes me question the boundaries. Is her submission solely for the blonde's learning, or does it extend to my whims? The thrill of this ambiguity, the push and pull of limits, it's exhilarating. I reach out, caressing her, my fingers tracing over her, her silent compliance a powerful aphrodisiac elevating my pleasure beyond the physical realm.
The situation is fluid, spontaneous. Safety is paramount, my bag of sexual paraphernalia within arm's reach. Suitably equipped, I announce my presence with a firm double slap of my cock on her ass before penetrating her. Entering her the dynamic shifts; it's less about control now, more about primal instinct. The scene in the mirror captures us, a human chain of pleasure, we're all lost in the moment, each of us a free agent in a chaos. My handprint on the brunette's skin is like a signature, a mark of my presence. I envision myself as a dominant predator, the king of his domain, then a moment of introspection; is this a hidden aspect of myself, a part of my identity that I've yet to fully acknowledge?
The blonde's eyes meet mine, and I direct her next move. She snaps to attention, sliding into place beside me. "Brace yourself, I'm close," I declare, "and you're going to take every drop," a non-negotiable order hanging in the air. The fairness of the act is important; it's her time, her lesson. As she takes me in her mouth, I release, her gagging, coughing, yet she perseveres. I pivot to the brunette. "Get on your back," I command, positioning for the finale I tower over her, my pulsating cock wedged between her supple C-cups. My volume dwindles, but the high magnifies with every pulse while the blonde is meticulous in her cleanup, ensuring no trace of our escapade remains.
The night winds down, and I find myself back home, standing at the doorway of my submissive's room. She's there, an image of *** beauty: pale skin, fiery red hair, her nudity an unspoken invitation. 
Despite the night's indulgences, a primal urge within me remains unsated. She's exposed, ***. A predatory urge awakens in me, an insatiable hunger. I enter, unannounced, driven by a renewed lust. The evening's encounters seem bland, almost vanilla, when cast against the harsher backdrop of BDSM. Reflecting on that moment, the scene not yet complete. Was it all about control, the allure of submission, the liberating descent into our baser instincts? Or was it merely the relentless drive of youth, the unchecked desires of a twenty-five-year-old? The questions linger, unanswered, and I am hungry for answers.

[Co****]

Wow!!...........