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Chapter 11: A Tale of Two Subs

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Relocated, my life has taken on a new landscape: a northern Illinois suburb replaces the beachfront of Florida, a brick house stands where sand once sprawled, and in place of red locks, dirty blonde hair cascades. Another year added to my life and her, paradoxically, growing younger by three. Amidst these changes, my core desires persist: a hunger for control and structure in a world that often feels untethered. Yet, there's this nagging sensation of slipping, a battle to maintain dominance that seems increasingly elusive.

The initial three months were a deep dive into communication, laying down the rules, and guiding her in the craft of gratification. She adapted swiftly, pulling us both back onto a track of mutual discovery. And really, who wouldn't find clarity in the company of a nine***-year-old vision of allure, eager to surrender to my whims? Her essence, a nod to classic French elegance; wide, expressive eyes, a charming button nose, lips meant for sin, and a body that is supple and smooth, radiating a seamless grace. Captured through the lens of my camera, her dedication was evident as she devoted herself as she went down on me. However, the moment she chose to defy my command, concealing the contents in her mouth before consuming every trace, marked the onset of a more challenging phase: discipline. It's here that our journey took a turn, where the true challenge of shaping and molding desire took center stage.

Submission, it's intoxicating, igniting those dopamine receptors like nothing else, but obedience? That's where true ecstasy lies. This life, a realm where the lines between fantasy and reality blur, revealing the raw underbelly of desire society tends to shy away from. My mind wanders, drifting back to the early days with the redhead who once ***ted my world in vibrant hues. She was twenty, I was barely scratching twenty-three, her protests reverberating against the walls. "Please don't," she'd implore as I adjusted the strap, securing her legs to the bench. "One warning is all you get," my response, as firm as the binds that held her wrists. Tracing her skin, so fair, so trusting of me to honor her boundaries, my pulse quickens. *** isn't the path to enlightenment here; our training is a dialogue, a mutual understanding. I'm attuned to her, to the subtleties of her reactions, to the unspoken desires that whisper from the curve of her form. I relish the push to the edge, those moments drawing her close to climax before pulling her back, the tension visible in the bite of her lip, the rise of goosebumps under my touch. We cycle through this, a rhythm of denial and anticipation, until exhaustion takes its toll, her resilience worn thin by the marathon of restraint.

Time blurs, her mental fortitude waning under the strain, the effort etched in sweat upon her brow. Offering her a sip of cold water, I probe, "What did we learn?" Her response, whispered with a vulnerability that ignites me, "Failure is not an option." 

"Do you want a release?" I question, fingers softly combing through her hair.

A nod, her desire barely contained. "Tomorrow morning," I decree, setting boundaries that test her further. "If I catch you touching yourself, you'll find yourself here again, faster than you can fathom," I caution as I release her from her restraints, marking the end of today's lesson and the beginning of her anticipation.

Perhaps it was the bond forged through shared trauma, or maybe the foundation of clear communication and solid ground rules we laid out before diving into our dynamic. In our shared moments, we leaned into crafting the space we desired, channeling our efforts into creation rather than exerting them on discipline and punishment. Yet, shifting from those past ties to the here and now, I'm confronted with this figure before me, with hair the color of sun-touched wheat. Her cries pierce the air, a plea for intensity, "hurt me, God hurt me," illustrates a preference for discipline over adoration. The only command she reliably follows is my directive to part her legs or mouth.

She counters every command, choosing the opposite of what's asked; spitting when told to swallow, swallowing when the expectation is to spit. Contrary to my orders, she finds her climax as I navigate her tight pussy, ignoring my attempts to deny her orgasm. A hint of discomfort manifests as I venture further, into territory less traversed, yet she defiantly reaches the apex again, disregarding my authority. Her mouth, then, becomes the arena of our silent confrontation, where her gratification isn't hers to dictate. With each intense movement, our eyes lock; hers brimming with tears, struggling for air against my advance. All required of her is surrender, to cease this futile resistance, and peace would be hers. Nevertheless, her opposition is unwavering, resulting in her rebellion spilling over me.

Our agreed-upon safe word, intricate and unlikely to be uttered unintentionally, remains unspoken throughout our nine-month saga. Now, she's exposed and restrained in my living room, her dignity stripped in a quest to instill humility. My frustration bubbles over as I question, "Did you learn your lesson?" My hand, weary from its task, meets her skin once more, leaving a canvas of deep purples and blues against the natural hues of her body. "No," comes her defiant response, paired with a challenging smile that only fuels my resolve.

The disappointment is clear upon my face as I reach for her hair, seeking leverage yet again, the aridness of her pussy speaks volumes of the ordeal endured. Yet, my resolve doesn't waver; a deliberate spit into my palm precedes my hand's journey, facilitating my entrance once more. Each movement is laden with an intent that borders on the primal, even as her proclamations, "I love it, God I love it," fill the air, challenging my control.

It's a raw spectacle, her positioned on all fours, me immediately behind, knees set to keep her stance wide, our forms merging as if custom-made to fit together. Together, we create an image of unity, so fluid it seems we're one entity, her skin rippling under the *** of each determined thrust, her hands fiercely gripping the sheets as surges of ecstasy transform her expressions. This scene borders on perfection, my grip on her hair tilting her head back to capture the fleeting expressions that cross her face. The moment her right hand rises to stroke her face, trying to ease the overwhelming surge of sensation, stands out, a stark portrayal of human sensation and deep connection.

The effort wears on me, sweat bearing witness to our intensity. I hit the peak for the sixth time today; despite my intentions, she follows suit. It's in this exhaustive state, a thought crosses my mind, a clear awareness of how far we've strayed from the original expectations of our agreement. 

Drained and frustrated, I pull out of her, releasing her from my hold, watching as she tumbles from the bed, her laughter echoing a satisfaction I can't share. My internal conflict rages, a dichotomy between two subs whose differences couldn't be more stark. One relationship was grounded in mutual respect and trust, an easier sell to the masses, while the other, marked by a deeper, darker craving, aligns with the desires of my young partner, whose essence and whims hint at a penchant for the sadistic. Society insists such desires are misplaced in the idyllic setting of white picket fences, yet in an ever-connected globe, I've come to understand that for every soul, there exists a perfect counterbalance.

On this day, the realization hit me: my sub, with her golden locks, was not my destined half. I attempted to part ways, yet her plea for another chance led to an extension of our connection by four months. However, she never truly grasped what I sought; it wasn't merely about the physical, the primal, or the taboo fantasies that ensnare the mind. Those were merely fragments. What I yearned for was devotion, a genuine submission that went beyond surface-level engagement, which remained elusive in her presence. And therein lay my epiphany: Could what I mistook for shallow submission actually have been her cunning way to fulfill her own desires for the intense, raw encounters she yearned for? Was our dynamic, one I believed to be grounded in control and submission, actually a battleground for dominance, throwing off the equilibrium I so valued? It dawns on me that perhaps, in the midst of passion that blinds and binds, the most glaring signs were overlooked, camouflaged by the ecstasy of the experience.

This was very well written. It's intriguing and draws you in. The reader knows exactly whats happening and it's sensual and thought provoking yet eroticallty subtle. One of the last lines "what I yearned for was devotion, a genuine submission that went beyond surface level engagement which remained elusive in her presence". I felt that and appreciate the intimate thoughts. I really loved this!
I don’t read many of the stories on here but I enjoyed this.

Interesting piece. Nicely written, colourful and I like the contrasts throughout.
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