Resolutions, Day 24

Recommended listening for today: “Cigarette Smoker Fiona”, from the album “Who The Fuck Are Arctic Monkeys?” by, uh, Arctic Monkeys.

Well I never came from no ghetto,
But it wasn’t nowhere near here.
Well-spoken girls in stilletoes,
Aren’t something to fear.

You’d think, after three weeks, that it’d be impossible for me to forget to do this, right? Well, I nearly did. Today was… not too bad honestly, but just kinda draining. Originally I was supposed to be doing a workshop on understanding the Treaty of Waitangi (or Te Tiriti o Waitangi, I should say, they’re more different than I thought) – but with the COVID red light level it got shifted to online. Which meant a full day of watching video modules and trying to absorb the info. It was actually really interesting, but… I was practically asleep at my desk by the end. More taxing than you’d think!

And then tomorrow, we’ve got part two – discussing it with the organisers, I guess. I’m working from home for that – both because I don’t want to be that one guy on a call all day in an open plan office, and also… because there’s apparently COVID cases in my city, now. Not sure where yet, but it’s really making this “it’s only a matter of time” thing feel more like a reality. Which fucking sucks! I’m going to keep an eye on things over the weekend and see what it looks like on Monday, before I decide whether or not I’ll go back to the office. Might seem a little over-the-top, but – I don’t want to get COVID if I can avoid it, I guess!

God, this blog is grim. When did I start just posting about viruses and work? Let’s liven things up a little, shall we?

I’ve mentioned before how lapping up drinks from my bowl puts me in the perfect position for the slutty little slave that I am – head down, ass pointed skywards, presenting for all the world to see. And, I mean, you know I’m going to use that bowl, right? I kinda have no choice, after all… What I’m saying is, if somebody were to set up some sort of trap to ensnare a really predictable slut, I’d be stuck, just like that, for as long as you wanted. Unable to move, except for some pathetic little wiggles – which only serve to make me a more enticing-looking toy for anyone walking past. Not that I’d know who it was, mind – I’d have no chance of craning my neck all the way back to see them. Maybe it’s… you?

How would you start, though? Watch the shivers run up my spine as you caress this object? Listen to the noises I make as you remove the obstruction that is “pants” and start spanking, hard and fast, leaving me a beautiful shade of red? Or maybe you’re in the mood for something else? Perhaps that little wiggle was just enough to tip you over the edge… Would I feel the thick weight of your cock on my back as you got it ready, whispering in my ear all the while about how you can’t wait to just lay into me? Possibly! I think I know what would happen, though.

I think the only warning I would get is your hands on my hips, lining me up for you, before you hilt yourself in me, punching the air out of my lungs with your sheer presence. Finally pushed just a bit too far – and who could blame you, with such a slut just begging for it? You practically had no choice but to rail me, pound me insensate, make me your bitch. Knock me up? Wait, did I say that? Well, that’s not really your problem, is it? You just keep thrusting, and rutting, and using your bitch – and if it happens, well, I literally asked for it, right? Don’t worry about that, though. Just stretch me out, grind me down – fuck me to pieces, please.

You reach one hand around and give a harsh squeeze, and at last I remember my place. I don’t give the orders here – I don’t even comment on them. I’m a toy, an object, a slave. A thing to be used and abused – oh yes, and filled, too. Filled to the brim with you – all-encompassing, filling up all my holes. The hole in my mind, the hole in my soul. It’s all for you. Maybe it always was. Thanks for reading.

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