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I hear the alarm clock in the bedroom. I hear him stir awake. He opens the bathroom door and begins brushing his teeth. He doesn’t look at me. He pulls my leash and I rise from the tub and kneel at the toilet. I lower my face, turn my head to one side looking up with mouth ajar to one side. He pisses. His morning stream is always so yellow. He finishes, I lift my head and suck him off. He gets his morning boner back. I put my head back in the toilet, and lift my ass. He reaches for the toothpaste, rubs my asshole, and starts fucking. I think he yawns. He doesn’t even push my head into the toilet water anymore. He finishes and gets ready for work. Since his wife took the and left him months ago when she found out he keeps me here, he doesn't look at me. He just sticks it in in the mornings, between brushing his teeth and eating toast. He doesn’t lotion the collar around my neck. He doesn't spit or slap me or me whore. I don’t think he loves me anymore. **He comes back in the bathroom in a suit. He dumps frosted flakes and a can of dog food in the toilet. I kneel, bow and from the bowl, lapping for the crunchy bits. I wish I could make him happy. **I hear the alarm clock ring in the bedroom. He brushes his teeth. I wait in the tub. But he pisses without me. And flushes without getting me food. ** I’m gonna sell you,” he says “You’re too skinny.” I start to cry. That afternoon, he walks me by my leash naked to the car. It’s nice to be outside. I feel pale. We arrive at a house with a pool. There are guys there. Lots of guys. Twenty maybe thirty guys. He ties my leash to table leg. And goes over to chat with them. They eye me and smile.**My asshole has been pounded for hours. I don't how hours or cocks. I feel a draft. My asshole is a wind tunnel, flapping meat hangs off. Cum drips like melted cheese from my holes and my lips. I swallow cum. I swallow piss. A cock pounds my pussy, now raw and peeling. I’m hold on to two cocks like handrails as the fist up my ass machine-guns my bowels. I scream through a mouthful of cock but my screams are fucked back down my throat. Piss showers me slick. My eyelashes stick. I can only breath cum through my nostrils. I begin to lose consciousness. He was right. I am too skinny. As I pass out (or am I dying?) I him counting cash, smiling. I tear. At last he was happy. fuck buddy Callander
They get divorced on grounds of violence in a fault state. Dad is forced into supervised visits, paying to his and support. He is ordered to pay her lawyer fees as well as his own. His credit card debt mounts. He doesn't qualify for food stamps or aid due to being an individual without custody. Mom signs over the house to dad and moves out of state, because she can he can't stop her due to protective orders and no geographic restrictions. Dad loses job to violence claims. He can't afford the house and it won't sell in the market. Foreclosure. He can't pay full or any support. He's now in being garnished and can't survive. Or he works under the table and is a wanted. Burgeo, Newfoundland sex personalsI agree with 'stachemeister in that the forms of objectification that appeal to me are be using as a footstool or end table as my partner decompresses at the end of the day quietly getting him off as he reads the paper or being instructed how to get him off as he cooks. Being a tool to help him shed the vestiges of a day and sink into the a quiet and relaxing night. If he can't sleep, providing the means to tire him out. Basiy being a fucktoy or tool to bring about his pleasure. I also get off hard on being forced to maintain the focus of pleasing him while he is groping and molesting me to assume that he's not touching me to please me but to please himself (and that I MUST NOT get off). To me objectification is the shedding of self to bring about comfort to him. It passes the point of doing it for him because he express pleasure in you it's doing it because it brings about his comfort without him ever feeling he even need acknowledge you. Sometimes I've imagined objectification in the form of being used as a game board or a chess table (with the grid painted on my back) for a gathering of his friends Yeah it is all about being brave for me too, trusting someone to do things with and to me that strike me as exceedingly uncomfortable. And then the occasional 'good girl' for the bravery :). And privately being held in a sort of cherished status by him for being brave and shucking self for overcoming fear. Being ed names like 'little fuckpuppet' and 'fucktoy' and being meticulously instructed on how to please him is objectification to me too. match personals
lonely women Gore Oklahoma One on one it is like being on the table at the ob/gyn spot light illuminating all of your secret places no where to hide. But there is an unavoidable connection of sorts. In a group I think the sense of objectification would really intensify, especially if the group were talking amongst themselves about what they were seeing. Neither is "easier", but perhaps a somewhat different flavor of distress. love laughing m25 Forncett End
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