Did She Enjoy Being Manhandled by Her Bull?

His hands, rough and demanding, grip my hips with a force that leaves bruises. I can feel every callus, every scar, as he pulls me closer, his breath hot on my neck. The way he takes control, it’s intoxicating. I’m his to command, his to use. And I love it. I love the way he makes me feel, like I’m his possession, his plaything. It’s a feeling that lingers, a mark of ownership that I can’t shake off. Even now, as I lie here, I can still feel his touch, his dominance. It’s a sensation that’s become my addiction, my obsession. I crave it, need it, like a drug. And he knows it. He knows the power he has over me, the control he wields. It’s a game we play, a dance of submission and dominance. And I’m his willing partner, his eager participant. I’m his slut, built for his pleasure, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Her Whispers of Submission

Her whispers, soft and breathless, fill the room as she recounts the details of our encounter. She can’t stop talking about it, about how it felt to be his, to be used by him. Her eyes glaze over, lost in the memory of his touch, his command. She tells me how he manhandled her, how he left her barely able to walk the next day. And she loves it. She loves the way he makes her feel, like she’s his property, his toy. It’s a confession, a revelation of her deepest desires. She’s his slut, and she’s proud of it. She’s proud of the marks he leaves, the bruises he causes. They’re badges of honor, trophies of her submission. And she wears them with pride, a silent declaration of her devotion to him, to his pleasure. It’s a role she embraces, a part she plays with gusto. And she won’t stop playing it, not as long as he wants her to. But I can’t help but wonder, as I listen to her whispers, her confessions. Why does she keep talking about his rough hands? Why does she crave his dominance, his control? Is it the thrill, the excitement, or something deeper, something more profound? I don’t know. All I know is that she’s his, completely and utterly. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. She’s his slut, his plaything, and she’s happy to be so. It’s a confession, a truth she can’t deny, a feeling she can’t ignore. And she embraces it, embraces him, with every fiber of her being. It’s a dance, a tango of submission and dominance. And she’s his willing partner, his eager participant. Always.