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Author Topic: A Sort Of Trophy  (Read 158 times)

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Offline CerealRapist

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A Sort Of Trophy
« on: July 15, 2022, 07:28:52 AM »
I text every birthday.  We split amicably enough.  And although I was the Dom it was she who adjusted more quickly - more substantially - to life after 'us'.  Ain't a day goes by that I don't think about her body. 

So each and every birthday since I've texted her.  A simple message...two or three sentences at most.  Because we run in different circles.  Worship at different churches.  Have sets of friends who will never overlap.  Haven't set eyes on that body in almost six years now.

I text every birthday.  And then wait for her response.  Not her updates.  Not her queries.  Not her emojis.  Just her response.  I wait for confirmation that her fingertips tapped out a few lines as a direct result of my instigation.  I like it still when she reacts to me.  I revel in being in control again.

In those moments - on her birthday - I own her again.  That most fleeting of connections a response from her affords me is a narcotic.  It must be the same for a rapist who retains physical trophies of his victims.  Items exclusive to the bodies and minds he has enjoyed in the past.  And desires to revisit again and again in the future.

That's why I text her on her insignificant birthdays.  To greedily grab up my meager allotment of one hour or so per year when 'she' will be under my thumb again.  Like that glorious handful of years when we were a couple.  Begging for permission to strip naked.  Waiting for permission to cum in our bed.  Thanking me for buttressing her self esteem with my approval as she accepted my cock inside her subjugated mouth. 

In those moments that exquisite body is warm and breathing beside me again.  For a very brief but blessed time.  I shall never be free of her. 

The former Master on the scrapheap.  And his one-time pupil now a princess.  An occupational hazard in being a sadist with scruples.
A few are submissive.  The remainder are sex slaves.


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