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I massaged her buttocks as the tide rose, squeezing the soft flesh between my fingertips as the final fitful squirts of piss erupted forth from her. I took one last greedy mouthful as she finished up then jerked her round, pulled her hard against me. I kissed her, the salty, hormone-filled stuff flowing between our mouths. We passed it back and forth until it was all but gone as I came hard in her hand, a thick gout of cum splattering her soft belly. She looked down at it, satisfaction registered on her face at the huge, thick ejaculation she had elicited from me. She scooped the still-warm stuff up with her fingertips and fed it to me. “Maintenant, embrasse-moi encore,” she said, “nous avons juste commence.” I was about to formulate a reply using my broken grasp of the language when something registered in my post orgasmic fug. A warning bell sounded somewhere in the depths of my mind. I had let my guard down. There was something in my peripheral vision, something in the room with. Fleeting thoughts, I am constantly distracted by nothing. That relentless whirlwind of nagging guilt, a hangover from my upbringing, is there to remind me that I need to stop and to continue. I have always submitted in life. To my parents. I relinquished the volition to rebel without any memory of doing so. It was consoling, the power they wielded, no matter how hard they were on me. I am that little girl you want to take in, the receptive little girl. In this fashion, I yearn to be a child again and yet, I hated every moment of my carefree childhood. I have, for a long time, relished my complexity as a human being. I am forever elusive, even to myself. Constant oscillation, and the whirlwind makes its appearance again. Who am I beneath this skin and these bones that seemingly link me to others around me? Who do they know resides there? It excites me to entertain these thoughts. But I am lost. Lost in a conscious way. Lost in an “I am not lost” way. I met my Master in the flesh.
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