My Sweet Little Helpless Valentine free porn video

Disclaimer: If you are under the age of 18 or don't like stories which deal involve sex with children, incest, pain or emotional torment don't read this. My Sweet Little Helpless Valentine ? by: Peggy Sue Flowers Preamble - This is a rough draft, hardly finished at all. It is also a test to see if my ideas aren't a bit too far out there to be enjoyed by this community. Please forgive overused words, over-worded sentences, repeated descriptions, confusing plotlines and unclearly defined environments, situations, or characters. Most of that confusion is, I'm sure, simply the result of the need to get the bulk of my ideas out somehow without worrying about the time and effort needed to refine those thoughts into easily understood and well defined fantasy worlds which we can, hopefully, all enjoy for a while. My ideas, being a rather deep and eclectic thinker, come from my own life, my exposure to the many stories in sites like this and from all other observations about the tremendously varied ways that people live, interpret and create life. I also draw from the forms and forces and wildness I see in nature itself. Strong tall trees, soft waters and grasses, beautifully bright and variously colored flowers, warm sun, cold snow, slimy snakes, soft kittens, you name it, all are forces which affect the tactile and emotional sensations which enhance fantasies and dreams. And if you look at how animals are dominated and submit, you see the actual real essence of passion. I seek to incorporate all of those types of ideas, at some point, into my story. I also even think that horror and monsters can heighten a girl's sense of fear and need for care and love, why not use these ideas too huh? I believe that the best experiences in life are those which lead our feelings and thoughts to a somewhat pleasurable world, however it may be that we each define pleasure. Inherent in all expression of human emotion and belief there is the risk of having those emotions perceived as dull, uninteresting or even worse, of provoking anger, hostility or hatred. But, if expressions are perceived as genuine and felt to be pleasurable then the only thing that makes them more so is for them to be continuous. I believe that we avoid a dulling of even the best stories by figuring out how to let dullness occur naturally, when it is needed for a rest, a rest from the excitement. I want to create a story in which many worlds can be explored naturally, meaning in some logical and un-manufactured or coldly and clunky way. I want the excitement to continue, so I will try to use the experiences of my own fascination with women's clothes and the feminine being as a guide. In my own experiences, there have been many times in which I was unable to be interested by dressing up or thinking about it. Yet, I was never at a lack for wanting this excitement to return. After trying hard in many ways over the years I usually just tried to 'stop' pursuing the excitement, and in doing that was able to see it return to me naturally in ways which I simply couldn't have controlled. So, I think that my female self in the story will be a victim of that type of trending, to have her excitement sprung on her in unpredicted ways, over and over. I think that the central way to find continued wealth for exploration into the idea of feminine sexual excitement is to find out what the essence of the deepest 'turn on' is and then to let it flower through as many types of story and character experimentations as possible. I'd like to experiment with many different ways of experiencing all of the aspects of my completely and deeply fantasized female self in as deep and wildly varied ways as I know how. I'd like to naturally weave in the calm, and not so intensely girly aspects as well as the sexually and emotionally heightened ultra feminine experiences. I believe that both are needed to maintain interest and depth, as well as creativity and newness. So, please forgive me if my stories take a while to develop or are difficult to understand at first. After all, jazz and classical music are sometimes very hard to appreciate, but after work, can be very powerful sources of new stimulation and depth in feeling and thought. Regarding the story pleasures cease to be pleasurable if they become dull. One way to avoid dullness is to simply allow it to happen and to be so unsatisfactorily numbed out by it that your soul cries out in pain for something new and exciting. At that point we are often able to discover that unease and nagging discomfort can be great motivators toward finding something new, interesting, exciting and enjoyable. In my story I will try to express the core essence of my cross dressing and romantic fantasies. But, being a deeper thinker, I like to explore the causes and meanings of ideas which remain seated in my head. I really want to explore the thoughts, feelings and events which, at times, impact my soul deeply. I want to explore deeper desires. Some of these came to me at earlier and more vulnerable ages when the world was not at all easily controlled by thoughts, and when feelings, people and experiences became fixed realities at deep levels. I want to look at ideas which mark the deep and seemingly helpless yearnings for love in my soul. I want to express and explore thoughts which suggest things that may be very difficult to understand or accept, either by myself or others. I do not read a great deal of literature about matters such as social deviation or dramatically abnormal behavior, but it seems to me that people are largely afraid to explore such ideas and fantasies. They seem to be afraid of what people will think of them. Well, after years of having and struggling with different types of obstacles and events and after a lot of growth in my life my fears are no longer so intense. Maybe that is why I am now able to write this, when it was so difficult before. Perhaps, as a result of posting this I may wish that I hadn't let others see it. But, I have been through numerous and long conversations with many cross dressers, readings of many many CD theme stories and many other events which, in summary, combine to convince me that my thoughts are mostly just the interesting ways that the psyche, whatever that really is, learns to identify and express love or the need for love. I think that love in and of itself is always accepting and healing, never destructive. It can lead to destruction if not satisfied in healthy ways though. And so, even if some of the events in my stories tend to appear sick or unhealthy, you must strive to understand, or at least to test, whether they aren't just the ideas of life. They may be complex, maybe frightening, but just ideas. I can assure you that most of this is indeed fiction, and although disturbing perhaps to read these desires, they are not intended to disturb. They are written here to be explored and understood completely. I wish only to understand what I want, why I want it, what I love, why I love it, and how to satisfy my deepest yearnings for love in the healthiest possible ways for both me and all other people in the world. These ideas I plan to write about, such as incest, sex with children, physical and mental torture etc. are probably better expressed than repressed. I strongly believe that it is more often the repression of such desires that more likely leads to them being actualized on non consenting persons. If we as people in general seek to simply understand the healing and destructive aspects of ideas and then move on to help the world with these understandings, humanity progresses with less violence, less alienation and less destruction both to others and to ourselves. If we leave these thoughts and feelings unexplored freely and constructively with open minded perspective we are left bitterly alone in a dark black back room in our souls and are always reminded that we are 'bad' people, without the hope of changing and finding or giving love to others. So, the world is more hurt and continues to not grow in conscience and capability as a race, as an energy. And remember, energy is the ability to do work. I say, let us see how these thoughts are good. It is not good to make love to your mother. It is not good to be spastic with pangs of electrical forces rippling through you. But, it is good to understand why those thoughts make you feel warm and loved. Maybe then we can find other ways of reaching real warmth and real love. I say, there is nothing wrong with exploring the most wild and even taboo ideas, as long as you are able to keep a perspective on life. We always need to see the totality of things, the bad the good and all the causes and consequences of both. All wild thoughts are tamed when you put them in the context of real life. We can't be totally destructive if we realize that being that way is always self-destructive. That is what perspective is, it shows us how we ourselves truly benefit or not from what we do. I know there are people out there who have been out of control and hurt people because they can not gain perspective. It is that lack of perspective which inevitably let them hurt themselves as well in one way or another. Either they isolated themselves from the care and love of others, or they ended their lives. Some people do, however, find peace by renouncing what terrible wrongs they've committed toward others and then decided work for the rest of their lives to counteract that harm. I am not one of those people. I do not act these things out. I do not even feel that I would like to. I only wish to understand my fantasies, not live them out. I do think, however, that I would like to live them out in a dramatic way, in a safe environment with somebody I trusted and cared for, somebody who would understand that the acts were not desires, but only expressions, and that the only way they would be fun is if they were not hurtful or truly overriding of anyone's freedom. But, I am very conscious of how rare it is to find such a person. It is rare to be viewed as interesting and safe and alluring all at once, physically and emotionally when you have such unusual fantasies. Life makes the expression of these desires, let alone their understanding, let alone somebody who is equally interested, let alone somebody who wants to experience them with you very distant possibilities to actualize indeed. So, I come to this site here instead to get, via words, as close as I can to expressing things. I should just say once more that if things in either my disclaimer or story are confusing, it is only because I haven't spent the time and energy needed to reformulate my words in more understandable ways. If you think at all that I advocate any lifestyle that involves incest, or sex with children or anything remotely violent and truly unwanted, you are completely wrong in that interpretation. I seek only to explore interesting ideas and to try and harness a flow of energy that widens all of life's possibilities for real love, real service and productivity to others, and real satisfaction in the totally wild, creative, ever changing and warm beings we are and can continue to be. I gladly invite and welcome all responsible criticism and feedback. Now the story. My Sweet Little Helpless Valentine - by: Peggy Sue Flowers This is the story of how I got to be who I am, and where I am, in my life. I'm a victim, the ultimate victim. My soul is owned, my desires, thoughts, beliefs, feelings, worldly realities, body and heart are the play thing of a god, a man god, a very very strong and dominating god, MY god, my love, my everything, my life, my history, my future, my good, my bad, my pain, my pleasure, my emptiness and my total and complete acceptance for everything that I am. And, I am all: sick and sane, high and low, sweet and bitter, soft and hard. He is fire and ice, my endless sky opening up to the warm and soft rain, and my desert of yearning and dryness, cracking skin and bone and hope and will, all in one, all at the same time, alone and forever in his total power and care. No thoughts my own, no desire of his unable to be fulfilled by me, a puppet, a play thing, a girl, sweet and loving, a woman rich with lonely desire, an old woman, glad to die and proud of her tortured life of love, obedience and giving to her man god. He is the source of my endless tortured up and down, in and out, exhaustive, complete, insane, satisfied existence. I am a victim of love and endless, selfless need for the deepest and most incredible love in the world. This is not a love held by chains and whips, though I gladly wear them with girlish glee and semi stupid pride, not realizing, well not caring that they make me look ridiculous to others who's soul is not owned by a man. No, my love is held by something far deeper, far more real, far more... well, yes, completely and totally... god like. I love my man and worship him. I would gladly take the time and energy to humiliate and hurt myself in front of anybody, with total willingness and eagerness. I would do it for even one of his powerful manly kisses, or even a glance from his strong soul, a glance which stabs quick, powerful and mercilessly into my shivering, whimpering yearning, childlike, shiny- ruffled-satin draped mass of warm wet fleshy sensations and impulses. He puts my physical, visual and thought awareness on high, threatening to exhaust and overwhelm my sense of security in place and time, or who I am, or who I have ever been, or who I will ever be. Many women in the world are in love and driven crazy with uncontrollable desires for their man of muscle and power. They are reliant on him, trusting of him, and painfully alone in self hatred without him. Their sanity is shaky and controlled by his will and needs. His only real love and art in life is planning to numb his woman or to calm her, or to let her feel as though there will be some moments of peace and maybe even slight masculinity for her. That maybe she will have some hope of a dignity for herself or that she will be able to become semi self reliant. But, the cycle of love and pain soon catches her, and she realizes that dullness and self achievement are only joyous when controlled by her man. He sets my nerves on edge, my dreams to the torch and my imagination burst with willingness to be his flower of love and devotion in a million scenes and places, forever, in a cycle of pain and love and pleasure, and testing and rewards that goes from the youngest little girl I've been to the oldest and most gentle and still feminine woman I will be. I want to shout to the whole world that I belong to him, my soul a black empty pit of pain and aloneness without him. His love for me, no matter what the cost, is total and deep and rich with warmth and fluid and energy. What I give is myself, my total soul, what I get is not just love, but total love, godlike power, only... it is his... he is my god, I am his child, a girl, a sweet loving woman, an older lady, always delicate, always warm, always real, always powerfully able to take whatever kind of dream or nightmare he thrust upon my world into his own. Of course, it was not always like this. You guessed it, I use to be a boy. Not a bad boy, I was a good boy, bright and sensitive, and deep. Yet, terribly alone, even into middle age. But, I had heart, and hope and I was able to write kinda well too. I found this website that reflected the most intense desires I had always had within me, real desires, not made up Playboy, Penthouse kaka, deep psychologically relevant desires, wrapped up in the emotionally intense imprints laid on me by family and school friends since the earliest of days. Somehow, after years of aloneness and dressing up in private as a girl, and pretending, and yearning, and wanting, this miracle happened to me. Yes, in the story it did. But, the real miracle was that I was finally able to put the bloody thing down on paper so all you wankin' blokes can see what a 'real' story is like. Naaa, I'm just having fun with ya all. I loved many many stories I've read here and have come to know a great great sense of self acceptance because of them. This is hopefully a tribute to that. I only hope that it is understood and felt and enjoyed at least as much as I've enjoyed others. I was the kind of man with a girl inside who was, by his whole personality, deep, curious, and interested in all the things that mark a great soul. A love of water and trees, animals and nature. A desire to understand the immensely intricate, vast and insanely complex interweave of reality called life and the universe. A reality sensed in the body, mind and soul. A reality marked and formed by events and histories, hard times and joys. I loved music and enjoyed trying to be a passionate singer. I liked kids and stories about the meaning of family and conflict and war and peace. But, I had never been in love. I was too, well too something, too scared, too independent in thought, too self critical, too strange, too deep, too lazy too something... perhaps too feminine. Maybe I was simply a weak soul, too weak for even love. And, maybe that is what it is, and so, with a war of the ages above us, and with the possibility that life will end soon by way of a third world terrorist's desires, I pour my soul out in hopes of catching some kind of completion or realizations about my world, my hopes, my needs, and hopefully, my value to others, somewhere, somehow. Our story has to start somewhere, and I have been tortured over where for years, a torture that stopped my thoughts from going to my fingers, to my nerves and onto e-paper and onto a link and up on a site somewhere on the world wide net of thought and ideas and human feelings and depth. But, now, be them imperfect, or poorly written, or too profusely spume out, here they are, leading somewhere... anywhere. No, not just anywhere, to the center of my ideas, my needs, my hopes, my ability to somehow accept who I am, and to move through it, into something new. Because, that is all life really is, a dense, fascinating, hard felt ride through waves of deepening and transforming self understandings and realities. We are made of many many things in life as we move through it. And, in the end, if there is an end, all we have is what we have done or wish we had done. All the words in the world can only lead to something that makes us feel. Feel numb or alone or hurt or weak or insane or wild or violent or frozen or terrified or secure or deeply loved or motivated to produce and help people, it is all feelings. Feelings come into existence and pass.. like cuming hard. But, the best feelings lead to others that take us to places which are interesting, and make us feel good about ourselves and life and people and things. Things which transform, things which hurt and things which heal and open, and let us feel ok. So, let's pick one dream and go there and through it and see if it doesn't lead us to others. We will dive deep into challenging ideas about right and wrong, and good and bad. We will explore passion and relaxation, and hopefully, we will begin to see and feel how these things are all part of each other. A woman who is fragile is somehow very very in control, even if she never is, somehow she is capable of attracting love... at least, in a story, a mind, a brain... and at least on e-paper, somewhere in time, somewhere in...the twilight zone. I really love the environment of most coffee houses. It was one day that I was in one of my favorite coffee houses in town, that I had the most transcending experience. I'm here to tell you about this experience now as it has changed my soul, tied me to the most powerful forces in nature and forced me to totally re-evaluate who I am and what I believe about life. Needless to say I am in love, and helplessly so, but I am getting ahead of myself. I like the warm and open environment of the coffee house, with it's casual, friendly, cozy and thoughtful feel. I also like the people who go there. They are friendly, kind, inquisitive, artistic, creative, intellectually motivated to learn about all aspects of culture, civilization and science and involved in many different types of work. In this particular coffee house I really liked Steve, the tall cute coffee maker, best of all. He sort of looked like Elvis Costello. He wasn't particularly handsome or normal looking, but he wasn't ugly at all. In fact he is kind of awkwardly different with his size and strange facial characteristics. But, he never seemed to feel bad about it or at all apologetic. He was very smart looking with those thick black rimmed glasses. He was always kind warm and outgoing with me. He made me feel appreciated and special there. Although he was long footed, abnormally tall, and even a little sloppily dressed at times, he was always clean and thin, and somehow very secure in, and even proud of, his appearance. I had been feeling lonely, defeated, unappreciated and depressed about a piano show that I had just played in the crowded coffee house. I had been so self-conscious that I made a lot of mistakes, and nobody clapped or paid any attention whatsoever to the show. Seeing me slump from behind the keys toward the serving counter, Steve smiled warmly and held out a slightly thick walled white mug. It wasn't ruggedly thick, and had a deep shine and multi colored glair from it's purple, yellow, pink and blue painted flowers. As he handed me the cup he held it strongly as if I needed time to figure out how to take and secure it. I tried to thank him quickly, but could smell something strange in the tea and got distracted. He kept his hand firmly on the mug and just looked into my eye and said with no apology whatsoever. "Mike, I'd better bring this to your table for you. It's hot. Why don't you go sit down now." I felt stupid, but it felt very natural to let him baby me, like everybody already knew that I had no confidence in much anymore, especially myself. I turned away self-consciously and awkwardly weaved my way through the crowd of happily social, confident, good looking and interesting people feeling like I had no pride in myself. Saying I'm sorry when bumping the backs of people's chairs who didn't even notice. I Felt clumsy as though nobody had any idea that I was the one who had just played up there. I felt beneath them all, unworthy and out of place, untalented, unwanted, unloved and totally misunderstood. After I sat and looked up from putting my music in my knapsack Steve was standing above me with the pretty tall mug. "It's my special new tea just for you Mish.. um.. Mike." I went to put my hand on the glass and he just acted as if I would drop it. "Smell that stuff. It's my new blend called rose honey thorn." I leaned my head over the cup and looked into it. "Mmmmm", was all I could say. At that moment I was eased into a more relaxed concentration of the odor of the brew. He placed it on the table right in front of me and my eyes never left it. At first it smelled like a deep wet woodsy dirt... which seemed odd. Then, it somehow mellowed it's intensity and began to emit a kind of lilac sweetness, faint at first, then much stronger. Almost without thinking I totally inhaled as much of the smell as I could. As I was totally enjoying this strong, unique and pleasant sensation, my head began to feel airy. The sounds in the caf? now began to seem somewhat muted and indistinct. The music became a stronger internal sensation that I began to feel all over. I couldn't recognize what was playing but knew that I knew the melody and whatever it was I seemed to remember liking it a lot. My vision than slowly became slightly blurred as I noticed a glowing around the rim of the mug. I pulled my head back to get clear and started looking around the caf? to notice a heightened sense of my connection to all the forms I was seeing. I started to immediately notice all kinds of new color and pattern around me. And then, all I thought about was getting another breath of that stuff. I totally forgot that Steve was still standing beside me and the time seemed to slow down to where it didn't matter. I put my hands softly around the very hot mug and gently lowered my nose again. I took as deep a sniff as I could. This time the same sensations intensified and I began to feel even other things. I was starting to feel somehow more involved in the room, and a bit more at ease at the same time. I felt the chair pressing against my bottom and back and my arms sinking into the hard wood armrests. I could hear my breathing more deeply as it got longer and more prominent. I could hear giggling girls and overly loud college boys laughing at other tables, but somehow as if they were at the far end of a tunnel. I felt them and heard them, and could not escape the sensations. I was realizing that I was becoming powerless to tune it out. My body began to feel heavy. My skin felt the cool and warm air pass over it very minutely. I felt waves of warmth and cold shivers randomly going through my toes, feet, legs, stomach, chest, back, shoulders, arms, wrists, fingers, neck, face and skull. My mouth was becoming dry yet somehow I could feel my saliva welling up in it. And yet, I looooved that smell. It made me remember when I was young and experiencing for the first time... my mother's and sisters... I'm getting ahead of myself. There was a dull pulse of warmth and shivers that somehow just had me focused on it all, unable to see much beyond my own body. All I saw was a deeply beautiful cup of perfectly watery and deeply rich brew in front of me. Then in the midst of what was becoming a slightly scary world, I heard Steve 's friendly and somehow authoritative voice, "Michelle, honey.. smell the flowers of your soul." I couldn't look up. I had no power to even think about trying. I just wanted to inhale that tea, and whatever it lead me to. I was beginning to think I had died and gone to a different, and far stranger land. One in which, I was to find out, I would have practically no control. Then as my body began to settle into a mix of oddly random sensations which were neither painful nor pleasurable, but consuming and perplexing, I heard the tones of the slightly electronic jazzy instrumental music increase in volume. Strong bass lines, a powerfully skillful beat, complex and controlled. No voices in it yet. The strings came in high hitting only key notes of the melody... giving the strong suggestion of a tune I knew.. yet making it more than I knew it to be. More complex, more expressive, more full, more emotional, more stressed, more painful in a way... and far more yearning for it's home it's tonic center. I began to feel immensely sick in a way which I couldn't describe. I was disoriented. I had no longer remembered where I was, why I was there, what I was doing, what I wanted, whether it was night or day, or even somehow...yes... it was becoming more and more clear to me.. even who I was. Then the sensations of the warmth, the cold, the tingles, the odd unusual twitches and the special disorientation began to mingle and combine pulling my whole being into what seemed to be air, into a totally encased capsule warmth and vibrant pulsing intelligent energy, of which I had no control. Colors began to swirl and glow very bright all around me. They were beautiful and wondrous and then I noticed they were flowing not only around but also into and out of me mingling with thick smells of flowers and musk. Purple, green, blue, pink, red, silver and all others flowing, exploding .. and threatening to overwhelm my every sense of reality. I was not who I was any longer, I was just energy and sensation. Totally out of control of it all. Then as if ten young boys were yelling at the top of their prepubescent lungs... I heard the words of the song... In tune, familiar, pretty, but emotionally expressive, and strained. These boys were not happy, they were somehow tortured, desperate to somehow get those words out of their souls and bodies and lungs, sharp and afraid, angry and real, yet harmonically rich, expressive and totally too familiar for my soul to take. I knew that as my essence was being blown apart, thrown around the cosmos, controlled, thrown back together again and watched.. that something else was happening to me... I was being called by something deep to return to who I was... and those voices took me there... the music hit every nerve of my body and mind, the colors created deeply real textured patterns which I felt deeply and yielded to as I let myself fall toward who I knew I had to be... "Well she's not dumb but she can't understand why she feels like a woman instead of a man." And then I understood... I screamed... unable to hear it clearly... shrieking into waves of booms and sound and blackness and depth and ... And what...?? And deep deep cramps... all over my body... where was I now?... I woke up...and all I could hear and feel and know was myself sobbing... crying... struggling to stop, and totally unable... I was afraid, deeply alone, terrified... and weak, until it all faded into silence and peace. The focus and sensation of my real self slowly returned as I could see my pink shiny oval nails around the flowered cup... My soft hair falling over my face and the mug as I sipped my life's tea. His gentle hand strongly on my shoulder, "Tthere there sweetie... this is Where I've always wanted you to be." I knew it then, everything was as if I had always known it, as I had said before, I was deeply, powerfully, helplessly, and gladly in total love. He owned my thought, my mind, my body, my desires... my soul. I worshiped him, it was that simple. He could tell me to kill myself, and it would be simple and easy. I would do it joyfully. He would make it painless and beautiful somehow. And, I would know that I was serving the will of all of nature by letting him enjoy my death. Or, he would make me humiliate myself for him, show people how weak and stupid I was. How somehow I needed to wrap myself in colors and fabrics which made me tingle and quiver. Colors which shimmered and sent out signals that I am to be noticed, for the tender flower that I am. My body, bound by softness and at times, yes, lovingly for him, for his attention, his care, his total control... his pain. I loved him. I was shit without him, and he knew it. I was michelle, with a very small m. Chapter 2: The bedroom was for a couple, not a young girl, but it was soft and floral, and she lay snuggled in the soft bright floral sheets and covers, sobbing in his arms. Her slender body.. her abnormally large round heaving yet upwardly bobbing erect breasts, her long soft legs stomach behind arms and soft shiny blond hair. The delicate soft pink glossy lips, frosty blue shimmering colored eyes, black thick lashes and glowing rosy cheeks. That tall confident and now very muscular boy held his new girl as she sobbed softly in his arms. "There there sweetie, you're gonna make me want to hurt you again if you keep it up." I tried to choke my tears, knowing that I would be spanked severely if I didn't and as it always did, it hurt deep inside, making me incomplete to not be able to express my pain and loneliness as a girl. He knew of course, he knows all my feelings and thoughts. He smiled as he always does... and taunted me... pulling my chin up to his he licked my limp lips and face and began to laugh as he pressed his unshaven face into mine. I knew he could not help but think that my pain was funny. And then he kissed me... licking my lips and forcing my weak mouth open... as my eyes watered all I could feel was that I loved him, he was everything to me. I wanted him to know for certain that the girl in the flowing shiny ruffled silk gown was all his. As he forced his muscular tongue into my mouth all I wanted to do was hold him tighter, suck him like a desperate baby and prove my love. I had learned everything about who I was and what I needed in life from the time I smelled and drank that tea. That tea which poured it's total godlike power into my soul, changed all my realities, and turned me into the most beautiful, helpless, sweet, loving, and desperately lonely girl in the world. Yes, the whole world, and of all time. He was a warlock of course, a very cool one. One who understood culture, and liberalism, and love, and communication between life and the cosmos, and nature and all living things. He, of course, became, yes my master, but to say that is stupid... he was simply worlds beyond a master to me... he was my love, my lover, my ruler, my master, my god. I would gladly do anything for him, because his return was to hold me up with utterly ultimate strength and pride to every human, natural and spiritual transaction in my life as the most helpless, sweet and kind female, flower of a woman, a girl, yes, even the bittersweet wisdom and joyous/painful realities of an older fragile yet still feminine thing. All these realities would be.. hidden maybe at first, but then sprung on me... making me shamed, defeated, lonely, afraid and ever so needy. So, as he was forcing my soft satin draped frame into his, I knew I was glad to let him control my feelings, my flesh, my pleasure, my pain, my fear, my violently heaving orgasms. I felt so wanted, so loved, so totally appreciated.. and of course, he knew all of that. He loved it when he laughed at my helplessness, my hopelessly bleeding emotions. He'd playfully bite my nose, and do raspberries in my eyes, and laugh at how all I could do was thank him for it. "My incredibly sweet and adorable little Valentine. How many years I saw you coming into my shop. How my heart yearned to control your soul. To place you in the delicate floral ruffles that showed the world your helplessly soft and round body. How I wanted to make you cry when you'd know I was not coming home for the night because (he paused looking for something amusing and impactful to say) I was going to be with your mother, controlling her feminine weaknesses, making her beg for love and pain, and forcing her to not only give me herself but her wishes that I'd rule you even more." With knowing and confidence he'd taunt me endlessly, though not continuously, about every aspect of my helpless love for him. "Remember when you first made that gown for me sweety?" To be continued, hopefully. All feedback warmly invited.