Her Day

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Her day begins before mine — but then, it’s not mine. It’s her day, like that. She slips out of bed and dons her gear. She’s not worried she’ll wake me. I half-pretend she didn’t. My passivity is what’s important.

She slips back in the bed. From the waist up, she becomes the big spoon. Her nipples rub against my back. Her lips brush against my neck. I wish her arms were wrapped around my body, but her hands are busy elsewhere. I swear that I can feel it through the mattress we both lay upon — the preparation. Her cock has no blood rushing through it, but I feel the heat of her sex just behind and below it, and I imagine it’s emanating from that long, thick, perfectly-shaped slab of purple silicone.

“Good morning, baby,” she whispers to me. “You’re so soft, and so smooth. You’re so pretty in your panties. You’re getting me so hot.”

My cock is straining in my purple bikinis. I let her kisses and licks dictate my wordless responses. I sigh, huff, moan, and even squeak. She has to seduce me, but I’m easy. That’s the deal.

Her hands finally find my nipples, and I feel the residual slickness from the lube. My lips part. I feel her smile next to my ear.

“Baby likes that,” she says. “Are you going to be a good girl for me? Are you going to let me make you feel good?”

I offer up the merest hint of resistance. She overcomes it with a nibble on my lobe, and a small whimper of disappointment. She’s horny. She needs to fuck me. I’m being a big baby. I always end up liking it.

I shift my hips. She inhales sharply, and I feel the smile again — widening eyes, too. I wish I could see them. They’re so vibrant, and they flash whenever she gets what she wants, or is about to. Her whole face lights up. She sparkles. I live for it, and she knows it. She only abuses it a little.

Right now, it’s more important that she be completely in charge, and that I be completely vulnerable. Not being able to see her is part of that. We’re perfectly positioned to start her day.

Once the panties come off, I’ll be defenseless. She doesn’t rush, but she lets me know she wants to. Her hands slide down and find the waistband. I shift again, and lift. They slip down to my knees. Her hands go back to her cock. I curl up a little more, lining myself up to be rus escort her girl. I’ve already accepted it, but I can still pretend to be nervous. I imagine her face again. This time, there’s something new. She tries to mask it, but can’t — not fully. It’s predatory, pre-satisfied. We both know she’s the stud. We both know I’m the bitch. She pretends to love it. I pretend not to.

My cock shrinks, but I’m hornier than ever. My masculinity melts into femininity, flowing into my throbbing hole and aching P-spot. Her finger and the lube are both cool. I like it. I’m just lucky that way, I guess.

The finger does its work and then departs. The slick, purple head finds its target. The moment arrives, and we perform for each other. I act like her cock is overwhelming me; she acts likes she knows how my well-trained rings and slutty ass feel all around it. I hope she actually does feel good; it is an excellent harness.

I let my hands drift to my cock. When she’s all the way inside of me, her hands brush over my hips and then meet mine.

“No, baby,” she says. “You have to submit.”

I try to whine, but she’s claimed my lungs and my voice box through my ass. She fucks me, and gets whatever noises she wants. She brings our hands up to my nipples. She gives me permission — instruction — to play with myself like that. I obey. She moves on. She grips my shoulders for leverage. She presses us even closer together.

I used to cry. I actually miss it. They were never tears of pain or sadness. I was simply overwhelmed. Being the girl still felt wonderfully wrong. It was humiliating. I was terrified someone else would find out. She never threatened that. She reassured me. She made promises. I took the ultimate risk, and she earned my ultimate trust.

It was enough to push me over the emotional edge, long before I could cum like a girl — or like a fantasy girl, I suppose — just from getting fucked.

Things changed. Ultimate trust is less exciting, more comfortable. We mostly just pretend now, but she’s gotten very good at actually being the stud. I’ve gotten very good at actually being the bitch. Her fucking muscles are strong, and she has stamina. Her cock is perfect. Her power and pace make my hole yenimahalle escort quiver. She hits the deep spots that make my entire pelvis warm, and the special spot that makes me leak. She never lets me touch my cock, but she always makes me cum.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “You’re being such a good girl for me. You’re taking your girlfriend’s purple cock like a good little bitch. Don’t worry about anything. You belong to me. I’ll protect you. I’ll make you feel good.”

Purple is the color of female supremacy, just like in those stories she found on my computer. On her day, I’m a slave to it. It makes me kneel. It makes me lick and suck. It makes me bend over. The panties, the toys, the collar, the leash, and even the cage are all the same. She wears it too. It doesn’t attach to the person. It attaches to the idea, directly. My purple panties make me submissive. Her purple underwear makes me submissive. The only reason I offer any hint of resistance in the morning is because I haven’t been triggered. I haven’t actually seen it.

I’m almost there. Her complete sentences fall away from the effort involved, but the two magic words echo.

“Good girl…”

I squeeze around her one last time. Then my body, and hers, do as they will. I have control over neither. I cum like a fantasy girl, though my half-hard cock does pulse and dribble. Behind me, fucking becomes grinding and gyrating. I hope she cums too. She’s the one who should, no matter what.

She stays inside me. I’m lucky she’s not actually a stud. She still cares, even after the act is complete. She keeps all those promises. With her lips, tongue, hands, and even those smallish breasts against my back, she makes me feel special — desired, even though she’s already taken me. I feel the intensely emotional paradox of being both conquered and protected. It’s still not enough to make me cry. I still don’t get those butterflies. I’m lucky I’m a man, I suppose. Cumming tips the scales well over to the good — the better, even. I don’t want to change anything. I love getting fucked, and I love that she’s so good at it.

“See, baby?” she whispers. “I knew it. Your girlfriend knows what’s best for you. When you submit to me, you feel good. It’ll always be that way. I promise.”

One day a week is a far cry from ‘always,’ but I don’t want her to be precise. This one day is forever, until it’s over. That’s the deal.

The other six days are mine. I do anything and everything to her. Some days she’s my girlfriend, plain and simple. Some days she’s my pet — that perfect center point between partner, toy, and slave. Sometimes she’s my slave outright; black is the color, and just one reminder will do. I still get to dress her up however I like.

I told the one lie. I’m not sorry. We call it her day, but it’s obviously mine. Whenever she needs one of ‘my’ days to be fully hers, she lets me know. I give her everything she needs, and she pretends I’m taking it from her.

She doesn’t understand why I want this, even though it’s what she wants herself. She tells me she appreciates the other six days all the more for it.

Just like some people are better aunts than mothers, she’s a one-day-a-week top and mistress — one and done, fun and done, back to the normal routine.

I’m lucky I’m a man, I suppose. This is my favorite day of the week, but the other six are so good that I simply can’t complain. My girlfriend is a wonderful stud, but she’s also the perfect bitch. Every day is my day. Is six out of seven good enough for her? Am I? I guess I’ll find out. The ring is hidden in my car’s first aid kit.

It’s been almost two years, and I’ve had the ring for a month. Why wait? It’s the silliest reason. You’ll laugh, and you should. I just don’t know what would make her happier: being asked, or being told.

You know what? Whatever she decides to be tomorrow, that’s how it’ll go.

Tomorrow’s the day. It’s the day. There. It’s decided.

It’s time for another risk. I feel butterflies again. She senses the change.

“Baby, baby, it’s okay,” she whispers. “I know you feel so vulnerable afterwards, but I’m right here. I’m still inside of you. I’m not going anywhere. I love you so much. I own you forever.”

I start to cry. She surrounds me with gentle, dominant love. She doesn’t know I’m not pretending. It’s okay. I’ll get her back tomorrow. She’ll get down on both knees, not just one, when I tell her that I own her forever. I’ve decided that too, just now. That’s what she really wants. She doesn’t want to be asked. That wouldn’t be as special.

I’ll bring the collar, too — elegant black Italian leather. I’ll slip both on her, one after the other. Her face will sparkle with tears of joy. I can see it. It’s beautiful.

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