I had noticed her thigh-thickness, up close and in my face and against my cheeks already, the last three times I’d gone down on her. I had just had ...nough of a break from her to forget what her thighs were like. And they weren’t even the first pair of thighs my face had been buried between that day.But I took my time getting to the burial part. I spread her legs apart just enough for my head; I kissed her down her prickly calves and flicked my tongue against her thighs. Either she had recently. I understood it, recalling to mind the old saying that the slave is in control, not the master. Right above the animated gif on a bad porno site of a trussed up woman getting whipped. Mentally, I rebelled at the slave/master image, even while I acknowledged it in his attempts to dominate me. I pulled at the ropes again, just to feel them. How much was I willing to bind myself to this man. Enough, I discovered, enough. ‘I understand, sir.’ He smiled at me and slid his fingers back inside my. More

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