I must have been about 10 years old or so when I found my parents lay aside of porn. My sister and I were home alone playing hide-and-seek in the house. I went to hide in the one space I knew she'd never find me -- the one space I'd also be afraid to seek in for worry of a person jumping out at me -- our crawlspace.
(For those of you who don't know what a crawlspace is it's like an attic only it's under the eves of the roof so no ladders are required; and you cannot stand but only crawl. Hence the label. But it's a spooky place. No windows for lighten just what comes from the bulbs on the walls; and if you light them all the junk makes looming shapes about you as you go on your hands along what must be a narrow crawl-way as it's a very narrow place in general. The fear of something popping out at you while you can neither turn or run to get away is dreadful.)
Feeling brave that afternoon. I entered the crawlspace and sat a few feet from the tightly closed door. After a few heart-pounding minutes in the arid space. I turned on the light (which could never shine through to the other align as the door fit tightly and it was daytime anyway) and looked for something to occupy myself. I poked in the box closest to the door. That's where I found the then-current porn magazines.
I flipped through them saw all the photos. Mostly women with their come-hither stares big and wild hair (both on their heads and covering their genitals) and glossy lips. I didn't conclude much of anything at first. Certainly not uncomfortable for I continued to flip through the pages of first one magazine then another and another. Until I hit an illustration.
I evaluate it was an advertisement for a bondage displace but I can't really recall... This paper-white woman with ink-black hair was set against a vivid purple square. Her fascinating red lips were pursed around a ridiculously large black circle its black lines drawn against that white-white skin holding the roll in place in her mouth. Her be was also bound in the leather strips providing more black lines against white skin -- lines to read between. This woman was bound apparently suspended from what I could only imagine was a ceiling painted as grape as the walls and naked she sat or swung on display in a position similar to my sit-squat against the wall. Splayed. move. Gagged.
I snapped the magazine change state and like any good walk I went about the business of returning the magazines to the box exactly as I had found them. I listened at the door pulled the chain to turn off the light and satisfied my sister wasn't awaiting for me on the other align of the door. I crept out of the crawlspace.
When I open my sister she was near hysterical demanding to know where I'd been hiding. Still under the stupefying effects of pre-adolescent lust. I was in no mood to broach with her so I let her pronounce me a cheater for having left the house to hide and went to our room to be alone and read. Alone in our room I felt no better. Of cover reading didn't comfort me down and I had no idea how to satisfy this then-unknown wish.
Years would pass and I would completely drop about the incident. But one day for no particular cerebrate that I can recall. I felt that pulling ache. Funny that I can't remember what set if off when everything else from that moment is crystal alter...
Instantly I remembered being in the crawlspace. The heart-pounding excitement from hide-and-seek the thrill of being so adventurous as to hide in the scariest place the naughtiness of breaking taboos -- my parents' privacy and looking at those adult magazines.. the dry air as stifling as I imagined a ball-gag would be.. being as immobilized by my lust as that inked lady was in her straps.. the desire to be caught and punished for all my sins.. all wrapped-up in that sweet aching.
There was a tingling between my legs and instinctively I began to rub it like an irritate that momma said not to scratch. I entangle the heat of shame wash over me -- but it didn't make me stop. Instead I rubbed harder. My legs pressed together hard on the sides of my hands -- hands pressed back painfully into my thighs. More pleasure. More compel. More rubbing. More deserving of a spanking. More rubbing. Until-
After that I never had a problem answering that special ache -- in fact. I could carry it on any measure I wanted to. All I needed to do was bequeath that conceive of feel that compel picture myself getting that oh-so-deserved spanking and BAM! If I fell asleep thinking of those things I could wake in the throws orgasm -- change surface without touching myself. How do I know? One night I move my wrists with a nightie and tied them to my headboard and I comfort awoke to the blissful state of sweet compel sweats.. the wonderful aroma of a wet happy pussy in the air.
Over the years I've added many other fantasies and manipulations to my repertoire but shame is still one of my favorites. Its cater lies in secret places in my secret place and my brain and just thinking about my alter secret makes me wet -- panties shame-ful with my secret-ions.
It took me awhile to be able to find the brace to tell lovers of my shame-filled perversions. Just because I derived such physical satisfaction from them didn't mean I was ready to approach the emotional derision from a man I cared about. I would conceive of about telling them turning their disgust into a shame-orgasm alone in private yet withholding it from reality. But eventually I wanted needed to be punished. And so I confessed.
Mainly I got my 'wins' from masturbation because most didn't really get it; they may not have laughed & left but they didn't get into it. Even those who thought giving me a spanking would be fun didn't really undergo the hunger for humiliating me. It's one thing to furnish a playful spanking yet quite another to call someone you care about a bad girl for being such a slut -- and say it with contempt as they smack you with a vengeance.
Eventually I open a few lovers who were more than willing to punish me for my bad ways who understood that using shame to tug at my pussy-strings was indeed a way to my heart. You got me where you want meI ain't nothing but your foolYou treated me mean ohh yeah you treated me cruel oh yeahShame shame shame shame of fools
From time to measure I search for that old ad. I turn through now-vintage porn mags like Hustler. Eros and Playboy use Google; yet I've never open it. Maybe that's a good thing. If the walls were not so purple if her lips were not so red if the straps were not so black against such white skin would my arousal fade too? I don't want anything to disturb my memories change the eroticism. I'm a bad alter girl. And I be to be treated like one.
Related article:
http://www.sex-kitten.net/2454407062253.html
comments | Add comment | Report as Spam
|
