Thank you 50 Shades of Bad Storytelling for ushering in BDSM mainstays into the accepted world of slut garb, normalizing my darkest fantasies.
Collars and Leashes and Bears, Oh My! Oh that’s not the saying? Tomato Tamato. Whatever.
Still, I do think it’s worth a shout-out to the book that brought America’s housewives out of the sad dungeons of DVR rewinds of The View and Ellen to crack open the laptop and start shopping at AdamandEve.com, to really find those nipple clamps that best describes your inner you.
Even if the dumb book has one huge fucking flaw: that of course men who like Dominant roles don’t need “fixing”. But I digress. Let’s stay on point.
I’ve always had a hankering for neckwear. Not sure why. Even in High School the girl that rocked the choker necklace immediately shot up two points in my book.
I had no idea at the time, that I wanted to grab it while I stare anger into her eyes with my circumcised (thank you, mom) dick pummeling her insides with the intensity of a rabid dog.
It goes like this: Oh, hold on Cupcake, don’t get all cutesie and think you get to move around much. Daddy’s got your neck in his dominant hand and lest you forget, I’m a lot stronger than you.
Just enjoy the ride. I do things three ways in life: great, unbelievable, or not at all. You are the lucky little kitten that gets unbelievable right in your pink parts so just close your eyes, feel me, and let the onslaught of cumming take hold.
Not like you have much choice anyway.
Also published on Medium.