How to get sex slaves horny. She's a sex slave for the day!.



How to get sex slaves horny

How to get sex slaves horny

A horny hormone story in four parts. First hint I liked a dominant lover , I was 23 and being kissed hard, pressed against a wall, my hair gripped tightly in his fist—eliciting an immediate wet panty response. The boyfriend before this unexpected encounter was all about permission—tentative for cues it was okay to sex me up, and even then, taking me with the ardor of a worn out stud-horse. Maybe it was just bad chemistry, but that first and almost four-year sexual relationship was about as hot and steamy as Iceland.

And it left me wanting a whole lot more. It left me wondering if I was too frigid or timid to inspire a passionate, I-want-to-fuck-you-baby response in a man. Maybe it was my fault? After all, I came from a born-again Christian stint in my late teen years that left me feeling queasy about premarital sex. Then came the hair-tugging, wall-pressing kiss with a man 18 years older. A man I married because I was insanely, irrevocably smitten with his primal, unabashed maleness.

This was a man who would think nothing of luring me away from the dance floor at a party to do me in the bathroom; who would initiate sex on a semi-public beach at dusk under the cover of a barely-there blanket; who would pull me back to the bed and cover me in kisses, morning breath be damned. After a year of living together, we started getting serious about sex play. He introduced me to bondage lite—just simple ropes around bed posts, arms and legs splayed kind of thing.

But the turn-on factor soared. I began to fantasize at work about coming home to my sex slave duties. I began to dream up more elaborate restraints, and even ventured into domination-submission role play. Oh officer, was I speeding? And then, I got married to him and had kids.

My sex slave life faded fast. It was as if there were unspoken rules about what parents should be up to in the privacy of their boudoir, rules that said be proper for god sake, what will the children think! I was a stressed out, tired, overworked mother who was happy to have vanilla sex once a week or less. My hormones were in oxytocin mode, wanting to cuddle and snuggle versus rattle the bed frame. Damn it, I could have written Fifty Shades of Grey , but with me cast as an intelligent, muse-driven writer who never, ever, says Holy Crap just as a guy reveals his dick for the first time.

No, I would simply purr, and remark cleverly about its girth. Bring that huge Italian salami over here now, please. Or something like that. The Italian lover was relentlessly passionate. He also loved to role play and play with sex toys. Until then, I assumed a butt plug was something in a plumbing shop. Until then, I had no clue that dildos were great optional add-ons for coitus, and that given three orifices are available, why not fill them all?

You could say that I was a late bloomer in the land of free-spirited sexual experimentation. I think I kept the neighborhood sex shop in business that fall. And then, it ended. Not just the whirlwind relationship, but my desire for far-out sex. The next two boyfriends, I backslid a good old born-again term if not to vanilla sex, then to strawberry. The occasional sex toy made an appearance, but for the most part I was happy to be experiencing pleasure, no pain needed.

No hold me down, tie me up. Just basic love me here and now, preferably with a modicum of manly ardor. This new land is the continent of menopause. Now, my sex drive is all over the map—here today, extinct tomorrow. And did I mention how arid this land is? Not the lush, wet and steamy terrain of my fecund years.

Not long ago, in a comic attempt to get some passion flowing through my veins, I signed up for the pilot of an online course called Ignite Passion Now. In it a husband and wife team teach couples how to restore polarity and juice to the dried up sex circuit.

My partner now husband and I were assigned an online episode video clip instruction that was, uncannily, about domination and submission. We got sick; the dog got sick; my kid got sick. All in all, we played the sick card to avoid having to tie each other up, just to get hot and horny again. Yes, I am a drop out from Ignite Passion Now. Forget the kinky game playing and the wet-panty love. Because even then, even as I was gorgeously aroused and panting with desire, I was a slave to something hidden and something unspoken.

I was a slave to estrogen. I realize sex used to be a drive, and kinky sex was sex on overdrive. When I am hungry, I eat; thirsty I drink; tired, I sleep…and it used to be, when I am horny, I have sex with myself or a partner. And that good old mid-cycle fuck-me-now spike is missing in action. Hit menopause and find out for yourself. Well, let me back up this contention. Because I am kind of suspicious when menopausal women relish me with tales of never been more sexually alive.

But according to author Jill Shaw Ruddock, in her cheerfully written book The Second Half of Your Life , most research shows most women suffer a libido drop at menopause. And where giving and receiving pleasure is not a drive, but rather a playful choice. All these sex slave years, in bondage to my reproductive hormones, driven to dance to an incessant endocrine drum beat, I am for the first time dancing to my own new beat—the beat, not of my loins, but of my heart.

This heart, the heart of a woman who has lived, loved and lost, is the new dom. And my body, for once, is the submissive. This heart is learning to be the one in charge. She will only take you by force when you are ready.

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Sexy Why I Became A Sex Slave.



How to get sex slaves horny

A horny hormone story in four parts. First hint I liked a dominant lover , I was 23 and being kissed hard, pressed against a wall, my hair gripped tightly in his fist—eliciting an immediate wet panty response.

The boyfriend before this unexpected encounter was all about permission—tentative for cues it was okay to sex me up, and even then, taking me with the ardor of a worn out stud-horse. Maybe it was just bad chemistry, but that first and almost four-year sexual relationship was about as hot and steamy as Iceland. And it left me wanting a whole lot more. It left me wondering if I was too frigid or timid to inspire a passionate, I-want-to-fuck-you-baby response in a man.

Maybe it was my fault? After all, I came from a born-again Christian stint in my late teen years that left me feeling queasy about premarital sex. Then came the hair-tugging, wall-pressing kiss with a man 18 years older. A man I married because I was insanely, irrevocably smitten with his primal, unabashed maleness.

This was a man who would think nothing of luring me away from the dance floor at a party to do me in the bathroom; who would initiate sex on a semi-public beach at dusk under the cover of a barely-there blanket; who would pull me back to the bed and cover me in kisses, morning breath be damned.

After a year of living together, we started getting serious about sex play. He introduced me to bondage lite—just simple ropes around bed posts, arms and legs splayed kind of thing. But the turn-on factor soared. I began to fantasize at work about coming home to my sex slave duties. I began to dream up more elaborate restraints, and even ventured into domination-submission role play.

Oh officer, was I speeding? And then, I got married to him and had kids. My sex slave life faded fast. It was as if there were unspoken rules about what parents should be up to in the privacy of their boudoir, rules that said be proper for god sake, what will the children think! I was a stressed out, tired, overworked mother who was happy to have vanilla sex once a week or less.

My hormones were in oxytocin mode, wanting to cuddle and snuggle versus rattle the bed frame. Damn it, I could have written Fifty Shades of Grey , but with me cast as an intelligent, muse-driven writer who never, ever, says Holy Crap just as a guy reveals his dick for the first time.

No, I would simply purr, and remark cleverly about its girth. Bring that huge Italian salami over here now, please. Or something like that. The Italian lover was relentlessly passionate. He also loved to role play and play with sex toys. Until then, I assumed a butt plug was something in a plumbing shop. Until then, I had no clue that dildos were great optional add-ons for coitus, and that given three orifices are available, why not fill them all? You could say that I was a late bloomer in the land of free-spirited sexual experimentation.

I think I kept the neighborhood sex shop in business that fall. And then, it ended. Not just the whirlwind relationship, but my desire for far-out sex.

The next two boyfriends, I backslid a good old born-again term if not to vanilla sex, then to strawberry. The occasional sex toy made an appearance, but for the most part I was happy to be experiencing pleasure, no pain needed. No hold me down, tie me up. Just basic love me here and now, preferably with a modicum of manly ardor. This new land is the continent of menopause. Now, my sex drive is all over the map—here today, extinct tomorrow.

And did I mention how arid this land is? Not the lush, wet and steamy terrain of my fecund years. Not long ago, in a comic attempt to get some passion flowing through my veins, I signed up for the pilot of an online course called Ignite Passion Now. In it a husband and wife team teach couples how to restore polarity and juice to the dried up sex circuit. My partner now husband and I were assigned an online episode video clip instruction that was, uncannily, about domination and submission.

We got sick; the dog got sick; my kid got sick. All in all, we played the sick card to avoid having to tie each other up, just to get hot and horny again. Yes, I am a drop out from Ignite Passion Now. Forget the kinky game playing and the wet-panty love. Because even then, even as I was gorgeously aroused and panting with desire, I was a slave to something hidden and something unspoken.

I was a slave to estrogen. I realize sex used to be a drive, and kinky sex was sex on overdrive. When I am hungry, I eat; thirsty I drink; tired, I sleep…and it used to be, when I am horny, I have sex with myself or a partner. And that good old mid-cycle fuck-me-now spike is missing in action. Hit menopause and find out for yourself. Well, let me back up this contention. Because I am kind of suspicious when menopausal women relish me with tales of never been more sexually alive.

But according to author Jill Shaw Ruddock, in her cheerfully written book The Second Half of Your Life , most research shows most women suffer a libido drop at menopause. And where giving and receiving pleasure is not a drive, but rather a playful choice. All these sex slave years, in bondage to my reproductive hormones, driven to dance to an incessant endocrine drum beat, I am for the first time dancing to my own new beat—the beat, not of my loins, but of my heart.

This heart, the heart of a woman who has lived, loved and lost, is the new dom. And my body, for once, is the submissive. This heart is learning to be the one in charge. She will only take you by force when you are ready.

How to get sex slaves horny

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4 Comments

  1. Oh officer, was I speeding? This heart is learning to be the one in charge. This was a man who would think nothing of luring me away from the dance floor at a party to do me in the bathroom; who would initiate sex on a semi-public beach at dusk under the cover of a barely-there blanket; who would pull me back to the bed and cover me in kisses, morning breath be damned.

  2. My sex slave life faded fast. It's tough to pick which hot guy you are going to have sex with each night, so she found a foolproof option:

  3. When the Portuguese started ripping people from their homes and sending them to be worked to death in Brazil, the Mbundu tribe turned to Nzinga to save them. She will only take you by force when you are ready.

  4. It was as if there were unspoken rules about what parents should be up to in the privacy of their boudoir, rules that said be proper for god sake, what will the children think! When the Portuguese started ripping people from their homes and sending them to be worked to death in Brazil, the Mbundu tribe turned to Nzinga to save them. She agreed, and legend has it that she couldn't sit down for three days.

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