By Kenneth Harding
How does a woman nonetheless in her adolescents turn into a faithful slave to a domineering, merciless, sadistic male grasp? Betty Jane tells her tale to Kenneth Harding during this strange, in detail advised story of her existence as a fortunately submissive and obedient topic. Humiliation in basic terms feeds her passionate nature, and discomfort and punishment heighten her delight in sexual pleasures if she is permitted to have them.
Even even though she might be certain and not able to accomplish sexual orgasm via sex or auto-erotic equipment, this degrading place bargains a few pride to her unusual appetites. Betty Jane is a real intercourse slave in each experience of the word—she will do noting with no her master's permission, but she is going to do whatever he calls for. She certainly begs him to form her existence to his personal liking and may be absolutely obedient regardless of the outcomes.
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This time, Joan knew she wasn’t talking about her dating life, but about running the store. “Fine,” she said. “I’ve been working here four years now. ” Ronnie had the good grace to look a little sheepish. “Still, it’s a big responsibility. You’ve never done the books or payroll before. ” She frowned. ” “I’m fine. ” She licked her lips, wondering if this was the best time to broach one aspect of her resolution to get serious about life. ” she started, jumping in. ” Ronnie sighed, then ran her fingers through her hair.
And then to slowly, so slowly, open the book and drink in the pages. She sighed, her body heating with anticipation. She knew this book. Every word, every nuance. Knew which passages were written with a light, almost humorous, hand, and which passages spoke to her soul, enticing her to stroke her breasts, her belly, and then dip her fingers down, down, down. She shivered, and then, pulling herself together, firmly returned the book to its place on the shelf. It was almost dawn. She needed her rest.
Leo asked. Bryce flashed him a grin, then glanced toward the redhead. ” THE ALARM ON Bryce’s watch started beeping at one-forty-five, and the redhead shifted against him and pulled the pillow over her head, her bare butt grazing his hip. He slid out from between the sheets, careful not to wake her. After all, the woman—he’d forgotten her name—probably was exhausted. As Leo had predicted, she’d been a wild thing. Exactly what Bryce had needed to get his blood pumping for another twelve hours of posturing and chest thumping in the deep, dark jungle of mergers and acquisitions.