One Month Later
I'm in uncharted territory, and I'm unsure how to navigate out of it. The more I try to stick with my normal playtime activities, avoiding anything intimate with Blakely, the more I fail.
I can only go so many sessions without kissing her before I break. And once I touch her lips, it's like relief hits me.
I don't know what's happening to me. It's a vicious cycle, but it doesn't help that the only time I really feel like Blakely fully submits is when I allow her to kiss me. It's why I let her the night at the club. I didn't plan it, but it seemed like the only path to take after her admission.
We've had too many play sessions to count. Every night, sometimes during the day if it's the weekend, or even the morning if I can't surf, leads to sessions.
The ones I get through without kissing her don't eliminate the chaos looming inside me. If anything, I feel more on edge. Nightmares always follow. Blakely always wakes me, giving me a pitiful expression, which I hate. But my past continues to terrorize me until I finally cave. The nights we kiss and my pet fully submits, I sleep peacefully, sometimes later than normal, and I miss the ability to surf.
It turns me into a bigger dick.
Blakely doesn't take my shit, talking back to me and standing up for herself, which only irritates me further. So I always revert to our sessions, trying to keep my boundaries until I fail again.
My secret plans to take down Hugh continue to evolve. I've become ruthless in sending him footage of my pet. Sometimes she's at the piano, belting out a tune. At others, on the beach, with the wind blowing her blonde locks all over. But then there are the times I really piss Hugh off. Like last night, I took a video of Blakely sucking my cock and looking at me with her glistening, doe eyes.
It was only a few seconds of coverage, but I didn't hesitate to send it. And I've been editing footage from our night at the club, using an app to hide the identity of my voice. Hugh's seen nothing of that footage. I'm saving that for public humiliation.
My pet stirs, a soft whine coming from her as she curls closer into my chest.
I curse myself again, stroking her hip. Last night was another example of my lack of discipline. Right now, I need to get away from her, but even that is getting harder. On these types of mornings, I want to kiss her some more and go at it again.
I'm turning into a pussy.
This has to stop.
She's learning how to fuck with my head to get what she wants.
I walked in the door after nine o'clock last night, and she was in a hot-pink lingerie set, kneeling next to her piano.
I had no idea how long she'd been in her position, but my cock got so hard, all I could think about was getting inside her. Within two minutes, I kissed her and carried her to the bedroom. We fucked, and talked, and fucked some more until the darkness started to break with a brilliant orange glow.
I internally groan, recalling how I admitted to her that my mother was a prostitute, alcoholic, and drug addict. It came out of my mouth before I realized it. And she pushed me for more info until I cracked further and confessed too many things.
Yep, I'm a full-blown pussy.
Unable to hide from my reality, I slowly move her off me, then sneak out of the room. It's close to eight, which usually means I missed my surfing window. But a storm is coming, making the swell higher and more dangerous to surf. It's the perfect morning for how I'm feeling.
I go outside, put on my wetsuit, grab my board, and enter the ocean, fighting to get past the break.
There's no calm chaos today, except for the image of my pet's blue orbs. It's a fight to stay on the board, and the challenge helps alleviate some of my stress.
Then her lips pop back into my mind.
Hours pass, and it begins to rain. I head to shore, shower, and go inside.
Blakely sits at the table, drinking coffee, looking lost in thoughts.
Panic grips me. I question, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she states, but she's lying. Her fingers tap her mug like she's playing a fast song on the piano. Her other hand is softly scratching her neck. If I didn't know her, I'd wonder if she's an addict, jonesing for a hit. It reminds me of my mother or hers, but I try to shake it off. Since the night Blakely drank that bottle of wine, I've never seen her anything but sober.
I sit next to her, grab her hand from her neck, and assert, "You're going to have scratch marks. Stop lying to me and tell me what's bothering you."
She cringes and sighs.
I wait for her to speak, but when a vision of my mother pacing our falling-apart house appears in my mind, I reach for her hand that's tapping the mug. I hold it flat against the ceramic and arch my eyebrows.