I like it when he wears my knickers. I like it when he wears short silk shorts, too – the kind he’s bought for me but that look too good on him for us not to share the pleasure. Given my love of seeing him wearing my clothes, it’s inevitable that one night I suggest to him: “Let’s swap clothes.”

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When the fuck is done, he doesn’t ask why I’m crying. Even though this is make up sex, and this weeping is more intense than any that’s come before. He doesn’t ask why, he just holds me. Kneeling on the floor, with my arms wrapped round his neck, and his spunk rapidly cooling on the inside of my thighs, I sob and sob and sob. And he doesn’t ask me why.

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The last time I had an orgasm was yesterday afternoon. Lying on the bed in the spare room with my jeans and knickers round my ankles, rubbing one out to the sounds in my head – of leather smacking on skin, and grunting, and dirty words.

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One of the benefits of being tall is that men can suck my tits while I’m riding them. Watching a guy suck my tits is as beautiful as the phrase ‘suck my tits’ is clumsy. There should be a better way of saying this, but I can’t think of one, so instead I ask with gestures.

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You want this? How much do you want it? Enough to humiliate and degrade yourself by begging? Enough that you’ll kneel on the floor naked with your legs and your mouth wide open, tongue hanging out and my spit dripping down your face, whining and weeping and begging me to fuck you? You want humiliation, I’ll give you humiliation – you filthy, cock-hungry slut. 

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