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aliljaded 53F
23941 posts
6/25/2018 4:27 am
Dead fish for fucking.

Dead fish for fucking.

I recall it. Sitting in geography class, hearing teenage boys sniggering about girls that just lay there like “dead fish” beneath them. I can bring to mind their saliva-soaked lips spitting jokes about my friend’s breasts and talk of girls that were substandard at sucking their adolescent cocks. They branded us whores or prudes - no place in between. I knew I fell in with the latter. How confusing to crave their approval despite hating their boyish groping hands and insecure smiles. The truth was I didn’t want boys, I wanted something else, not sex but certainly, my pulse would spike for male teachers who almost exclusively seemed more interested in me than anyone else ever had been.

But I carried their cruel summation of girls with me.
I carried it like a backpack that had been sewn into my skin. I carried it when older boys sweated onto my stomach as they thrust wildly into my painfully still teenage body. I carried it as men too old to be touching me, explored that space between my thighs and rubbed their erections onto my fifteen-year-old skin, all whilst I failed to reciprocate or give a sign I was present.

I was always so confusingly unmoved.

Those boys had joked but in truth, my sexual lifelessness did become a brand and welt upon my back for men to judge. I was the boring fuck who failed to elicit fantasies of women who belong in porn with their eager holes and apparent lack of self-respect. I was a clam. A mollusk hiding in my shell wondering why these men didn’t know what dwelled inside until I wondered myself if there was anything really there to discover.

Years. Years of this.

But I also recall Your grin. The one that spread across Your lips as You read the nervousness that twitched and tortured me, no person had ever smiled at this before. I remember seeing You witness my silence and my waiting body; interpreting that as an opportunity instead of an incompetence. Have I ever mentioned what it felt like? That first time when You took over when You pinned me to that uncomfortable mattress and said I was such a good girl for not resisting. How You felt me melt just then, as though I was the fairytale princess locked inside a tower of her own making, finally freed not by a chaste kiss but a bruising kind of control no one had thought to administer. I’d never needed too much kindness, I’d never needed gentle caresses or fumbling hands in the dark. You knew. You understood so well how I was still because I was waiting, still because I’m unable to be anything but a vessel to be used, to be ordered and trained. I cannot be another thing. My passion does not exist for men that lack the ability to scare me, to force me, to hold me down and glory in my fight or lack thereof. The brand acquired all those years ago was wrong. I am no prude or useless fuck if such things exist at all. I am a clockwork toy, I always was.

The moment You told me that You cherish my obedience, my natural tendency to wait for Your command, my inability to take initiative….it was the moment You gave me a new brand.

Submissive.

enslavedwhore~


"Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.”


aliljaded 53F
8847 posts
6/25/2018 4:34 am

Well written and insightful 😊

"Men need to hunt. She obviously understands this. She’s offering herself as prey. Not easy prey. But willing.”



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