The sound and timbre of his voice when he instructs me is a great turn-on. Nothing juices me up faster than when he tells me he’s got a special punishment to deal out to his naughty little girl. He’ll have me turn around where I can’t see what he’s doing, and raise the hem of my dress. As he lowers my panties there I stand, not knowing what he has intended. My body tingles with apprehension –is he going to kiss my throat in that way that stirs my whole spine? Is he going to lean me over and spank me? Or maybe caress me between my anxious thighs? These moments are a sublime union of anticipation and nervousness. He towers just behind my shoulder, so that my senses are overwhelmed with his clean virile smell. My juices flow as surely my exposed bottom tenses.

It is, of course, the intimacy that is the best part of our lovemaking. We bare ourselves, body and soul, with pure appreciation and abiding devotion. The touches, the unveiled declarations, the secrets shared in unwavering confidence; these are the things most sacred. Even the most tender of shared kisses electrifies as if the Divine has gingerly touched its brand to my lips. Because this is the person I love above all others; the one who loves me unconditionally.

I can’t deny that for almost eleven years I’ve been in an almost constant state of lust for this man. He jokes about it – his perpetually horny bride- even as he admits he wouldn’t have me any other way. And though it may be hard to believe, my desires have never once been sidetracked for anyone else. Sure, I can look at a man and acknowledge he’s attractive or appealing. But I don’t lust for these others. My fantasies are always for my Master. When I dare caress my hidden cleft, and work myself into a sodden broil, he’s in my every delicious reverie. Other women sometime enter these fantasies, too: lovely angels and mistresses, sweet and cruel. But they’re never alone. He’s there in the starring role, gazing at me with those gorgeous eyes; unveiling, commanding, disciplining, and ravishing me. I can’t imagine anyone satisfying my amorous wants any better than my Daddy Master. Nor do I care to wonder if anyone possibly could.

During lovemaking no style brings me a greater sense of satisfaction than when we sixty-nine. When my mouth is stuffed by him -while his tongue fills and tantalizes me in turn- this is rapture. It is bondage without cords or straps or cuffs; and I am for a time simply at the mercy of his affection. I nurse and savor that wondrous cock as he pleasures me. His driving organ is like an extension of myself. I am vulnerable, yet worshipping of this man who holds me in tethers of flesh and blood. And always is that question, will he let me climax? He holds that power, its one of his talents --to build me up to the brink, and then decide if I’m allowed the zenith. Even when the answer is no, he has this delicious way of keeping my body shuddering and wet with desire. Touching me, in his deft, skilled way, that tempts me to satisfy my hunger with my own fingers. But I fear the consequences of doing this and the knowledge of those consequences only make for a more heightened frustration. A frustration that is as sweet in its frothing totality as any orgasm.

Mutual passion touches every aspect of our relationship. His presence brings vividness to life. When he’s away at work, my body seethes eagerly for his return. Needless to say, he has been the sole inspiration for most of my erotic writings. We are opposites in almost every respect, but it is our very differences that seem to complete us as a couple. Master is my best friend, my well-source of reason, my supporter and champion. I admire his knowledge, ingenuity and humor. He’s almost clannish about family loyalty, and I’ve never met anyone with such a phoenix-like capacity for getting back on the proverbial saddle after a setback as this man. I’d die for my Master, and adore every moment of life because of him. The future doesn’t scare me as we’ve been through misfortune and hardships, and came out only stronger and more in love. This love is greater than any limitation and nuisance that old age might have in store. If I reach the Summer Land before him, I will be waiting with open arms for his arrival. And if he goes first, I know he will be watching over me until we embrace again in that delightful place where the illusion that is mortal sorrows is swept away.

Some people claim that in a lasting relationship passion fades, and that real love is something that inevitably transcends physical pleasure. I propose that this simply isn’t true. I believe that lasting passion, no matter how it is expressed, is a reflection of spiritual love articulated via the physical body. The manifestation of two souls that are only whole when coupled upon the corporeal plane. The belief that fading ardor is inescapable impresses me as a myth convenient and placating for those who have loved, but not with the acceptance of the divine principles of male and female. I don’t judge them. Certainly, I don’t feel compelled to go around expounding my belief to every couple I meet. It might be that these others have simply not been so fortunate. Maybe they’ve become cynical by failed past relationships. Perhaps they are frightened to acknowledge that the divine can manifest in the bodies of simple men and women. Whatever causes others to dismiss the idea of eternal passion is not for me to say.

It is enough that I know that I’ve been richly blessed. When he awakens me in the morning, my eyes open to wonder what’s behind his inscrutable smile. My hips writhe of their own accord beneath his possessing hands. Is he going to kiss me, and touch my aching nipples with his scalding lips, and caress my fluttering clit? Will he fill me with his hard cock, or handcuff me to the bed for staying up past my bedtime? Or perhaps, if he wills it, all of this…