I miss her.
I miss the directness of her stare as she slaps my face.
I miss the way the world stands still before the first stoke of her cane.
I miss the rasp of her hard rubber cock deep inside me.
I miss her murmured “I know, I know” as I whimper in pain.
I miss her sensory overload that forces all the noise out of my head, leaving me free to concentrate all my energies on Just. This. One. Thing.
I miss the nipple-grabbing ferocity of her greeting, the electricity that crackles between us at the height of a session and her hug at the end of it.
I miss all of it.
It’s been two months since I was alone with her, but it feels much longer.
Our relationship is bordered by well delineated and respected boundaries. Our interchange is intensely, gloriously, physical yet she offers me no real intimacy, kissing me just once on the cheek as I leave. I’m almost twice her age yet somehow it’s a big sister kind of a kiss, a simple thing.
My time with her is both the most demanding thing I do and the most straightforward. There are no layers of complexity, no hidden meanings to be wary of, no conversational bear traps that could trigger blazing rows. I know precisely where I stand with her. Ours is a relationship of absolute clarity and beautiful simplicity.
I miss her.
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