"I have a gift for you, Clint": a cat-o'-nine-tails peeked out from a bag filled with whips, handcuffs, paddles of every shape and material, and then a leash, a collar, a leather blindfold, a tail with an anal plug, nipple clamps (only the cam clients enjoyed them, but what if you treat yourself to a gift, and then...) Witnesses and accomplices of fiery nights, my toys. Will she be using them with her new lover? Will she do it with the next ones? It's not known: we continue to see each other, occasionally, but there is no trace of that languid creature who enchanted Clint every night with tales of her carnal escapades. Adventures with strangers, single or in pairs, with Masters, in swingers' clubs, in private studios, outdoors, in public restrooms, without fear and with the joy of giving and receiving pleasure. Every night an anecdote, every night a sensual fragment to complete the Calamity puzzle and build our unrepeatable, absolute intimacy. We still love each other, of course. But I no longer know anything about her desires, her arousals (do you still read the "Master seeks Slave" ads to masturbate, Calamity?), nothing about her orgasms (a blinding light that colored my last years... now only a slow, inexorable fade to gray). Is there anyone to spank you, at least, someone to slap that groped, abused, cummed on, beloved ass you carry around the world, making cocks erect with unparalleled grace, Calamity? Is there still someone to whom you whisper "301, please..."?
Date: 13-09-2025 16:01:42
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