“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, butt plugs with tails, and then a leash, collar, leather blindfold, nipple clamps (only the cam clients have enjoyed them, this still pisses me off after all these years...). Witnesses of unforgettable nights, my toys: heaving tangles of Calamity, Clint, and a few other lucky bodies. Will she be using them on her new lover? I wouldn't be jealous (I am jealous of the tweezers, though, damn it). Will she do it with the next ones? It's impossible to know: today Clint has no idea what happened to that languid creature who captivated him every night with tales of her adventures with strangers, single or in pairs, with Masters, in swingers' clubs, in private studios, outdoors, in public restrooms, fearlessly and with the libertine 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. These days we see each other occasionally, 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 dazzling joy that colored those years... now a slow, inexorable fade to gray). Is there anyone to spank you, at least, someone to slap that beloved, groped, abused, cum-filled ass you carry around the world making cocks erect with unparalleled grace, Calamity? Is there anyone left to whom you whisper, "301, please..."?
Date: 16-09-2025 17:36:55
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