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Everyone was always over 18. This is a collection of stories fans have sent me, true stories according to submissions.

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From my Journal

SUB IN TRAINING

FIRST: when session begins, completely undress.

A good slave stays totally naked (and barefoot) for the whole session. Pull off top and skirt, shoes and socks and wait. When asked, put off my bra and panties and once I’m properly naked, give him my clothes.

(Sometimes I keep my jersey:) – for nostalgia

They are not Mine!! I ‘may’ get them back at the end if I am a good little girl

SECOND: Assume the ‘waiting position’. Use the normal position

or

wait for him to say.

(I know what he likes) Standing, legs apart, hands behind my head.

THIRD: let my Master inspect my naked body. ANYTHING!! Do not move! This inspection should be slow, detailed (!!!!!!). Every orifice, surface, fold, wrinkle.

During inspection, I must stand still and be silent. I may be laying down. Face up or face down.

FOURTH: Once I am inspected, help get ready. Cuffs, anklets, rope maybe a gag. Some days, when it is all day, a collar.

Follow silently.

I am my Master’s.

———-

I blink at the notes, trembling.

There is a saying, ‘When the Sub is ready the Master arrives’

I may have found mine.

——————

My actual slave is so pretty, eight years younger than I am, Very shy.

We started by accident. And she was embarrassed, asked me to stay partially dressed (jersey). That was OK at first.

It’s been six months, she knows now she must totally undress herself and give me her clothes. She has to stay completely naked for the whole time she’s here. Only then do I give her clothes back. If she misbehaves it all just takes longer. The record is three days naked, even drove to the store with her in the passenger seat.

She still complains whines, every now and then, but she is mine. I like skin, I like her embarrassed, the way her ass blushes when I look between her legs.

Oh, and she is my sister!!

What do you fucking think of that??

—————–

Football

The BET was over a game of football. I go to my brothers every Saturday and we watch a game. Sometimes I come over Monday night.

He loves football and knows it well. I love the players, and have a thing for their uniforms and their bodies. They are my gladiators:)

I am eight years younger than my brother and he has his own place. He’s not really the football player type (though he thinks he is), so not really my type either, other than his personality. We get along well and it was sad when he moved out, but we kept in touch. He used to date one of my best friends, and we all still get along. He skateboards, and works at a design/ad company with a ‘unique understanding of the Millennial culture.’ blah blah blah. That’s what the website of his company says about him. He is quiet, some think he is serious, but I get his humor. And he loves football.

Is there a tension between us?

I am talking like sexual tension. Nah. Nothing I’d ever noticed, and that he ever had any designs on me came as a surprise. And it did start while watching a game. A Cleveland Browns vs. Packers Game, and for some inexplicable reason he is a Packers fan. I graduated high school last May, and was wanting to move myself into a friends apartment. Not a lot of stuff, but some heavy lifting and I needed someone to move me, and my brother would have helped anyway – but, we ended up making a bet.

I bet the Packers would lose and he bet they would win.

“How much is the bet?” He asked.

I raised my hands, letting them drift through my hair. Twinkle in my eye. I do not know why I said it the way I did.

I said, “If I win, I OWN you for a weekend.”

He blinked, giving me one of his wry smiles. “And….if I win.” He paused for effect. “I own YOU.”

It was meant harmless (on my part). I really just wanted him to help me move, AND be able to order him around. It would have been fun. But the tingle I felt at his words, his low voice, the stubble on his chin, the wry smile. The understated way he could say things. He took a pull at his beer. The way he said it, the sound of I OWN YOU.

I was watching the game, not looking at him when I said,

“K”

———————–

I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was after my huge flaming breakup with my girlfriend, of which my sister never knew anything about. I don’t even think she knew I was dating anybody.

I never told her about it. I don’t know why, and …

My sister. How do I describe her, us. It started so slow, the day she started coming over to watch a Football game with me. I was bummed, having broken up with my girlfriend, giving her my who gives a shit smile. It was uneventful really. She came over and we ate pizza and watched the game.

She liked to wear a jersey, and shorts, and the jersey was XXL, and so long it istanbul escort covered her like a very short skirt. Her standing in that jersey eating pizza in front, her back to me, as she watched the TV screen, is an indelible memory for me. Those legs. The first time, I thought I was looking at the most beautiful girl I had ever seen, and from the inside. Don’t misunderstand, I had absolutely no intimacy in mind. I knew who she was – off limits – I just remember thinking, ‘Some lucky guy will get you.’

It just happened, we got along, she was funny, it was all good. But I’ll never forget how it grew and grew, those Saturdays. The routine. I came to look forward. I tried to date again, comparing these girls each time to her. Because when you date, its all this act, thinking of where to go and be so cool. Always these grand gestures, and its never so good as just sitting around. Who gives a shit. Having a girlfriend, at the beginning anyway is all about the grand gestures. You impress, give gifts, eat at fancy places.

Weirdly forgettable.

It’s fake, or not really fake, it’s not life. Women just want one thing – prince charming. And they play and play this game, and be coy, and – fuck – then they just hook up with the guy with a good job. It’s the men who are the true romantics who come up with all the grand shit, who feel bad if anything is not perfect. Life is not meant to be fake. I mean what girl likes football, really? They put up with it, but Sara she was just here, not trying to impress anybody. It is the small moments. Created the opening, of us, our small moments. And every Saturday and pretty soon you have 100 small moments, and I am like damn!

So then I stopped even trying and started thinking about my Saturdays, and ways we could do other stuff, and then I am like shit. She was really starting to blow my mind, and I am feeling stuff, and she is just watching fucking football. It all felt real, and I felt her, her presence and smile and humor and bull shit. Friends. That’s what we were. And when it is small, there is no grand gesture and no drama and no huge fucking flame out at the end. Nothing to understand or misunderstand, no mind to fucking read.

And that is what Love is. Small stuff.

And I knew this would end, she wold meet somebody move on. She was talking about her place with a friend. They were going to have parties, would I ever want to go. I’m kind of old I say and she casts her eyes down. “I guess.” We run out of things to say sometimes, get bored waiting for the game. Talk about mom and dad. But then the silence is OK too. I start to hate it when she leaves.

I am a romantic.

I imagine her gone, married with two brats. And one day she is sitting by herself at the table, and she smiles. She smiles because she remembers Me – and smiles. Remembers this sofa, this room, this stupid Game. Everything we did, every small thing we did. Nothing grand. Ever. Maybe Christmas, and we can look at each other and remember and know we are remembering.

Everything else, I’ll fucking forget and all these other women. And they will forget too.

But you know what?

We will have The Game.

————-

The game is on and I am sitting at one end of the sofa with David. We are watching and eating chips, drinking some beer (he lets me when I’m here). I have had enough to feel the light little buzz, and now I’m eating chips.

He says to no one, “I should have been a football player.”

I laugh, “You used to play?”

“Uh, yeah, some, I should have kept playing it, there’s good money in it.”

I quirk a grin, “You’d have to go to college.”

Silence. I’m smiling and laughing inside. Any modicum of work, he’s just watching now.

We were on a three seater couch, I’m at the one end. It is the Packers and the Colts on TV. We live in Indianapolis and the Colts are OUR team, but my brother likes the Packers.

I like to watch football with my brother. The only light in the room comes from the TV as it flickers green, and then blue sky when the football is thrown high into the air. It flickered on my brothers face, shadows playing across the room. The kitchen light is on.

“What position would you play?” I keep it going.

My brother shrugs. My knees are curled up beneath my jersey. I am wearing shorts today, white shorts. I look at his eyes, and the shape of his chin. He is not thin, but his body is long, and it makes his waist look thinner than it is. His jaw is angular, and he has sharp, dark brown eyes. Muscled round shoulders. He’s wearing a tight white T shirt, muscle shirt. I am thinking, he’s cute, for no reason at all. And as that thought was working its way out, I have this moment of volition: ‘What if I was to slide over to his side of the couch, how would I start that?’

Weird. And my thoughts continue in this path, my heart flutters, flowing from the way he is sitting right now. My eyes glance sideways at him. I could get up, get another beer. And come back, sit at the middle instead of the end? OR only part way. cebeci escort I pull my knees closer. I could stretch, turn my legs out and swing around, and be a bit closer.

Why the hell am I thinking that? And then HE gets up. “Want another beer?”

“Yeah.” Shit, well now I can’t get up. While he is in the kitchen I swing my legs around and move closer to the middle of the couch. I actually do that.

Put my legs up on the table in front of the couch.

He comes back, hands me the beer, looks a moment and sits next to me. So he moved in a little too. Next to me! It just feels nice. I am feeling like I just want to be closer to him today, nothing but that. He is not at the far end anymore and neither am I. We are next to each other. I have my beer and bring it down between my legs. Look over at him. He has a glass.

“What are you drinking?”

“A little whiskey.”

“You didn’t offer me any?”

“I didn’t think you’d like it.”

“I probably don’t.”

He laughs.

“But you could of….” I drink my beer. And then as we are watching the game, he puts his hand down on my thigh, just below my jersey, as we watch the game, as if nothing was happening?

I don’t quite know how to react, but I just sort of lean in a little closer, letting my side brush against him. Drink my beer. Lovely little buzz.

The flickers in my thoughts, as I watch the gladiators on the screen, suddenly make me feel awkward. The thoughts stirring are all about the the feel of his hand, and with it an arousal, a tingling in my sex. A light moment of melting. Human contact, and I have not had any lately. I had masturbated yesterday, felt so nice. Not thinking of anything in particular. I begin thinking of my hands rubbing hard between my legs. It felt so good, but all I had lately is my hand.

-and- my brother?

Pushing it all away made my heart beat a little faster still, bringing warmth to my ears. But with the game, and the room, the beer, his whiskey, and just us. It felt nice. Safe.

A little guilt, but nice. And I smile, as the thought occurs to me. ‘How would I confess this?’

Finishing my beer, I set it on the table and play with my hair a little, glance at my brother and sidle in closer next to him. Form myself a bit to him. Is he thinking the same things? What does he think of me? Like right now, in these shorts and this jersey. I have nice legs, and I turn my thighs, his hand readjusts but holds to me. His hand lays on my skin. Not moving.

Does he ever wonder what color my panties are? Where did that fucking come from?

I’m not wearing a bra today.

And again noticing how he is touching me. We could be thinking the same things. That was kind of exciting and sad at the same. Sad because they could never be together, and I jumped a bit when he looked at me mid-thought.

And as his eyes landed on mine, I sighed. An audible sigh.

Fuck! What was that? ‘Was it that loud?’

Shit.

“What?” he asked.

For the first time I was a bit tongue tied. I just smile. “Nothing.”

“You Bored?”

“Nope.”

“You want that whiskey?”

“This is all right.” And I stay leaned against him, his hand at my thigh. I wanted one but did not want him to get up. I want nothing to change just then.

What is he thinking? It can’t be the same.

He turned away again. Both watching the game.

His hand is warm, sensitive skin. My mind playing, watching, thoughts dancing, ‘He probably has experienced fingers’

And that thought brought a gentle squeeze of my thighs together. ‘I am fucking drunk’

I am fucking drunk, sitting in the dark beside him and I’m getting fucking wet, and a new wave of guilt. Should I move? In answer I press my bottom a little deeper in the couch. No. I want that whiskey, but don’t want either of us to get up.

It was getting worse, the feel of him, and the urge to lay my hand across his stomach. It felt like how I wanted it to feel. I mean, to meet some guy and sit with him just like this. To be with someone, have someone, and suddenly I felt a little sad. And his hand at my thigh, touching my bare skin. I wanted this with someone. Someone I could be with. I had to resist the urge to squirm. And again, a sigh, a long deep breath. My cheeks are flushed, but you cannot tell in the dark. The game, the TV picture, and I’m like what the hell is going on.

And there it is. The context. The beginning.

I felt excited, aroused, guilty, naughty sad.

And that’s when we made the bet.

I bet the Packers would lose and he bet they would win.

“How much is the bet?” He asked.

I raised my hands, letting them drift through my hair. Twinkle in my eye. I do not know why I said it the way I did.

I said, “If I win, I own YOU for a weekend.”

He blinked, wry smile. “And….if I win.” He paused for effect. “I own YOU.”

It was meant harmless (on my part). I really just wanted him to help me move, AND be able to order him around. It would have been fun. But the tingle ankara escort I felt at his words, his low voice, the stubble on his chin, the wry smile. The understated way he could say things. He took a pull at his beer. The way he said it, the sound of I OWN YOU.

I was watching the game, not looking at him when I said,

“K”

————–

And then, suddenly, the GAME mattered. There was this warmth coursing through me, as I watched, as I watched it all unfold. Like some kind of dream.

A Vinatieri 50-yard field goal made it 21-13, still Packers ahead, beginning of the fourth quarter, when Packers kicker Mason Crosby followed that up by missing a 52-yarder. Suddenly, the Packers’ offense was sputtering, while the Colts’ pass rush was making noise. Luck ran it in from three yards out to cut the lead to two, though the Colts couldn’t convert the ensuing two-point attempt. Then Vinatieri drilled a 28-yarder to earn the Colts a lead, 22-21.

Five minutes left. I was going to win.

“I’m going to win!” I nudged into him, now we were both watching. A competitive spirit.

“The Pack is made for this.” Was all he said.

He was right? All that did was spur on Rodgers, who drove his team 74 yards before finding Jones from eight yards out to make it Packers 27-22. Luck took over with 3:30 to go and the ball on the 20.

Hell of a game.

Then came what Arians called, “The storybook ending.” Luck to Wayne for 15. Luck to Coby Fleener for seven. Twelve more for Wayne. Two plays later, it was Luck to Wayne for 15. Then 18. and first-and-goal from the 4.

And then the Pack shut it down.

I lost. I lost.

David looked over. “You lost.” mussing my hair as he got up. “I OWN you.” I looking up at him. “You want that whiskey?”

“Yeah.”

—————-

Now I was not really thinking anything about it. I mean I was going to have him move me, that was it, So now it meant nothing more than him making me wash dishes, clean his house, make the bed, do laundry. Some such shit.

He came back with two more whiskeys. Handed me mine and sat down. I took a swallow. It was alright, I was expecting a burn or a bite, it was good.

“You like it?”

“Yeah.”

“I put a little sweet wine in it. Softens the bite.”

I took another sip and as I sat there, swirling its flavor in my mouth, he reached out a hand and lay it over my breast and gently squeezed.

What the fuck!

I jumped at the feel of his hand. Moving myself back. Holding the drink out away from me which had spilled a little.

“What are you doing!!”

He says, “I own you. You lost. You’re mine, I guess, for the weekend.”

Now I know everything I was thinking before. Being up against him, and all my delicious feelings, naughty guilty feelings. But he was my brother, these were just inside my head.

“That is not what I bet!”

“So…What does it mean to ‘own’ somebody?” Smile on his face again.

My cheeks are burning, and could still feel the pressure on my tit from being squeezed. I was also, unknown to him, sopping wet. “It means,” I said with mock prudery, “I do stuff for you. Like, I don’t know, Like…I was going to have you help me move. So…” Collecting my thoughts, “You could….” I was at a loss for words. I was so fucking aroused thinking about it.

He got up and went into the kitchen, called out. “I didn’t know you came with so many rules. If I’d known I would have bet for something else.”

I laughed, “You are drunk. You can’t be serious.”

He came back out, “In my book ownership makes you’re mine. I can do whatever I want. But…, well, you can go ahead and make me dinner then.” He was so nonchalant. What was he thinking?

He turned to leave, and turned back again.

“Just one thing. You have to do it with your Jersey off.” My eyes went wide. He had groped me already, he knew I did not have on a bra. He added, “I won’t touch, but I’d like to see.”

“You are my brother!”

He sort of shrugged. “Just, considering, you are mine. You lost the bet. I should get SOMETHING I want.”

And the nugget of an idea.

“I just can’t, Not that. But I can….”

I got up and lifting my jersey to my waist, undid the snap on my white shorts, hooked my thumbs at each side and, letting the jersey fall back over my hips, slipped my shorts and panties off together. I was standing there in front of him bottomless, covered by my jersey which was falling just below my crotch. I was breathless with arousal and could not believe what I had just done.

He was surprised himself. I do not think he ever thought I would have taken my jersey off. Not really. And even if I did it was just my tits. But now I was bottomless. I left my shorts and my panties – red by the way – right near my feet as I stood there before him.

“This is what I will wear while making you dinner, since you OWN me.” I swayed a little, reaching down, and finished the rest of my whiskey.

He looked at me like he was going to say ‘shiiii-it’, what he did say was “That’s fine.”

He sat down again, and as I was going into the kitchen he says, “I think I like owning you.”

—————————–

Now there is definitely more to this than her version. There is some back story to us.

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