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Now is the time for making things simple.  I’m far too verbose, at times. It’s a mask, to hide behind when I fear the worst. I cannot define the worst. It simply is what it is. So, rather than mask what I know to be myself in fear of a completely undefined and unreal thing, I’ve decided to become naked to myself, transparent to the will of my own soul.

 

I love mouths. I love quirky smiles and kisses and breath.

I love hands: strong and scarred and warm and merciless.

I love backs. They’re a pure expanse of skin, heartbeat, and all good things.

I love hair and the feeling of it sweeping across skin or wrapped up in aforementioned hands.

I love honesty and boldness of tongue.

I love bites and caresses of tongue.

I love bruises and reminders.

I love restriction, domination, power, denial of pleasure, forced pleasure, and taking pleasure.

I love increased heart rates, heavy, short breaths, and begging.

I am desperate for my own collar. Symbols amaze and encourage me with their power of suggestion to the mind.

I love cock and I love pussy and I love them both and miss them when they’re gone.

 

I want a home, I want a family, I want a good job and a good life and a good husband. I even want plain old vanilla love-making sex. I am a hair stylist, I am a good cook, a movie fanatic, a Shakespeare enthusiast, a good swimmer, good with horses, and a loving friend, sister, daughter, and girlfriend. I am all of this first and foremost. I am also a fetishist. No masks involved.

 

 

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