the context of being content

So the bottle of wine from last weekend was left half empty because I brought this lady home. Normally, I’d finish all the alcohol I can, apart from perfume. The snob in me could never allow the animal in me to perform such a barbaric act of gluttony.

This lady is a butch, a suppose. I’m not exactly sure what that means.

I brought her home (she proposed this idea). She cooked for me. She gave me a massage. Then she fucked me. I let her fuck me. I can’t say if enjoyed it, but the idea of submissiveness did intrigue to me.

We meet again.

Being the experience addict that I am, I carry on playing the submissive role.

I learn that I’m not allowed to speak more than she does.

I practice my listening skills and notice how difficult it is to actually not talk at all.

Also, she always has to be right.

If I disagree I have to express it very gently.

My opinion is not in demand.

I have to praise her a lot.

She continuously exposes her achievements.

I have to be impressed.

I also have to be sort of mysterious and flirt with others in a slightly hidden manner.

She likes being jealous.

I have to know how to increase the value of being the possession.

Everything about me needs to be unattainable.

Yet desirable.

It’s a game in which she tries to work out the rules.

I create the rules.

I break the rules.

It keeps her excitement growing.

I have to be slightly unavailable.

Yet submissive.

She decides which wine we are going to have.

I compliment her taste.

She is leading.

I let her think that she is leading.

I ask questions.

She gives clever answers.

I smile and approve everything she says.

Everything she is.

Her ego is happy.

Her confidence is growing.

She wants to shower me with love and affection.

I’m the pretty one.

The feminine one.

I’m the trophy she aims to have.

I am THE prize.

I get bored.

It takes a lot of effort to be weak.

It takes a lot of control to know how to submit.

—–

Power games demotivate me.

I feel the void staring at my soul with a piercing gaze

It’s just me and me and me again…..

I’m content with being alone.

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