Mistress Ginger has Ryan spread his legs wide, so she can secure his ankles too. She wraps the cuffs around each ankle and pulls the buckles tight. Rising once again and taking Ryan chin in her hand, Ginger turns his head and stares deeply into his eyes, “slave!” she says demanding his attention, plus causing him to fall deeper because she used a trigger word again. “Are you comfortable?”
Although the concept of intercourse interested me, it also
scared me a little. I knew I wasn’t
ready for it, but I also knew I was dying to be close to boys so I could
kiss them and be held by them. After the
affair with Walter, there was a drought.
I had crushes on older boys who barely noticed me, boys my own age were
largely pigs, and puberty had now brought me to the teetering edge of full-blown
adolescence, where each day was a new and deeper pit of hellish self-consciousness,
self-loathing and almost untenable horniness.
There will be time to go back and talk about early
childhood, but I’ll start with my first conscious awareness of sex between
I was walking with my friend Carol outside my old Brooklyn elementary school, P.S. 169, when she asked me
if I knew how babies were made. I had
just devoured a great big greasy slice of pizza and her question made me
queasy. I was 11 years old and puberty
was making a loud and early entrance in my life. Yet though I was noticing boys more, and was
filled with romantic fantasies based on the novels and movies I’d read, the
mechanics of baby-making eluded me. I
was content to leave it that way. Even
then, I knew I didn’t want children.
Still, once she raised the subject, curiosity got the better of me. “How?”