Ryan

 

 

 

There's no proper dining table in the play room. I usually find other ways of feeding my girl, depending on how well she has behaved. Some of them get fed like a pet, forced to eat out of a bowl I place in front of them, or only allowed to take food from my hands. Others behaved well enough that I allowed them to sit on the floor next to me and the food was served on a Japanese floor table that's so low to the ground that one must sit on the floor to eat.

My doll deserved the latter because she has been a very good girl.

But this is the first time I find myself sharing a giant delivery pizza with a girl. The last time I did this with any girl is so far in the past, I can hardly remember it. And I’m not meant to remember it, because it's part of a past that I try very hard to forget.

I can't take my eyes off of her, even though she's stuffing her face with pizza and casting aside any effort to impress me. She was so shy and tense just a few minutes ago that I feared she wouldn't be able to eat, but as soon as the pizza arrived, she seemed to forget her reserved behavior and started to dig in as if she hadn't eaten in days.

It's an alluring sight to me. More than I'm comfortable with.

"This is so good!" she exclaims. She‘s still chewing but already is holding up another slice to her face. I allowed her to wear a light silk robe for the time being, even though I hate that it hides her enticing body from my view. The robe hangs loosely around her narrow frame, occasionally moving to the side, revealing her beautiful breasts. I regret not having played with them more earlier. They are meant to be tied and tortured with nipple clamps. I can't wait to see her react to that. I'm sure she'll give me a reason to use them on her soon enough.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it, doll," I say. "You earned it."

She smiles at me. "I'm sure you're used to fancier dishes."

"What makes you think that?"

She awkwardly shifts on her seat, indicating that speaking the truth makes her uncomfortable.

"I mean with... who you are," she brings forth. "Don't people like you prefer to dine at five star restaurants?"

I let out a chuckle, shaking my head.

"Not at all," I say. "In my opinion, very few things beat a good pizza."

"You mean except for sushi?" she asks, winking at me.

"Sushi is a different kind of food. It doesn't serve the same purpose as pizza."

She nods and takes another bite from the slice in her hands. I love seeing her like this, her hair ruffled, make-up still intact but slightly smeared from our play, and her face glowing like only the face of a freshly fucked and satisfied girl glows.

She catches me staring at her, and I'm surprised to find myself embarrassed by that, quickly averting my eyes and reaching for another slice of pizza.

"Is this how it usually goes?" she asks. "I mean... the process when you have a girl here?"

I can sense pain in her voice. She doesn't like to be one of many, even though she clearly isn't. Everything about her is too special to file her under just another annual playdate, even though I'm paying her just like the others.

"What do you mean?" I ask to clarify, reluctant to give any answers that might complicate things.

"You know," she says. "The blindfold, making me walk around like that, and... the other stuff."

It's so charming how she can't get herself to speak openly about these things. I've never been too fond of filthy-mouthed girls, but have had to endure quite a few disappointments in that regard. Whores aren't exactly classy conversationalists. I love how innocent she is. She doesn't share the aversions I've seen with other girls, while still being anything but naive or stupid. A dangerous mix.

"Every time is different," I reply. "Every person is different."

"Mmhmm," she replies, sounding unconvinced. "Some are better than others, I'm sure."

She lowers her eyes, avoiding eye contact with me. Is she fishing for compliments? Or does comparing herself to the whores before her make her feel inferior?

"I like change," I say, circumventing the sensitive subject. "I get bored easily."

The green of her eyes pierces through me when she suddenly looks up to meet my gaze.

"Is that why it has to be a different girl each time?"

I simply nod.

"But why only once a year?" she presses. "If it's a different girl each time, why not do it more often? Isn’t that enough diversity to keep you satisfied?"

I huff. "You'd think so."

She straightens up, her eyes wide with curiosity. If she was a little kitten, I bet I could see her ears pointing up with attention.

"But it's not?" she probes. "Or did you lie when you said you only do this once a year?"

"Why would I lie to you?" I frown.

She shrugs. "To make me feel special?"

Her words anger me, not because of what she's saying, but because of what it does to me. I hate that she doesn't realize how special she is to me, no matter the circumstances. At the same time, I'm aware that I can't tell her either. She shouldn't know because it would make things a lot harder than they already are. I will have to let go of her tomorrow evening, and just thinking about it makes my stomach turn.

"Only weak people resort to lying if they want to make an impression on others," I claim.

"So you really are doing this only one time a year?" she clarifies. "You only have sex once a year?"

I huff.

"Look at you talking, Miss never-had-sex-before," I say. "Why is it so hard to believe?"

A faint blush travels across her cheeks.

"Yeah, but that's different," she says.

"How so?"

She clears her throat, reluctant to reply.

"Because it's... you," she eventually dares to whisper. "And you're a man and all..."

"What a presumptuous thing to say, doll," I say, narrowing my eyes.

She looks alarmed, ready to spit out an apology, but I stop her before she does.

"Don't worry, you're not getting punished," I tell her, lifting my hand in a reassuring manner. "Just trust me when I say that I want it this way. I need it to be this way."

"But why?" she continues, still not ready to let it go.

My eyes lock onto hers and I let out a sigh, communicating that I've had enough of this conversation.

"Because that is what makes me happy," I say. Subject closed.

She presses her lips together as if trying to keep herself from asking anything more. I can tell she's not happy with my answer, but she senses that asking anything further wouldn't be a smart thing to do.

I'm not ready to share the truth with her, and I'm convinced that I've already said too much. She doesn't need to know about the black ghost of addiction that once haunted me. It's been gone for years, but I feel it creeping up on me every time I do this. Every time I fuck, every time I play, every time I come close to a woman. It's still there, ready to take over as soon as I lose myself for even a moment.

I can't let that ever happen again.

"Whatever," she whispers, turning her eyes away from me and back to the pizza. "It just seems odd to me."

She pauses for a moment, the expression on her face changing before she continues to speak.

"Besides," she says. "Who says I'd be happy with having sex only once a year, now that you've given me a taste of what it's like?"

She winks at me, trying to come across like a naughty little tease. I have clearly awoken new kinds of urges inside her that she didn't know existed before.

But her words leave a discomforting ache in my chest.

Because I know I won't be the one to meet those needs.