The gift of my submission?

Siren told me its a gift, my submission.
I believed her.
They say that we enable each other to become our true natures.

If that’s the case I’m a whiny little bitch who’s just desperate for attention.
An English Honours graduate who can’t remember how to use apostrophes and right now couldn’t give a fuck.
A potty mouth who’s going to wash her own mouth out with soap on Sunday evening.

He doesn’t ask anything of me and so I send asselfies to other guys instead but i get bored with their silly questions too quickly. “Are you wet?” ….. well no, because you haven’t done anything to turn me on yet. Oh the mere presence of a Domly man sends me into convulsing waves of orgasm. So they think.
Or they send me really really disturbingly fucked up stories and then think I’m going to be warmed up for a wank chat after I’ve read their psycho shit. Jeez.

He doesn’t ask me to wank chat with him. He doesn’t ask for my personal degradation like others have done. He doesn’t ask me to send photos of my pussy at random times of day. He doesn’t like it if I swear (even to tell him i want him to fuck me really hard…. which I do). He simply asks me to wear a skirt, to be on time (not much success with that one yet) and to be in bed by 9.30pm. And he tells me what i will do, and he will do, when the time finally comes that we are alone together in private.

His patience and control about this drive me insane. I have dug up all my stupid tools of provocation and manipulation to attempt to get under his skin the way that he is under mine. Simply making myself feel the least bit like a gift to him and more like a dead mouse the cat left on his doorstep.

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