For the Love of Licia
Chapter 1: Ghosts and Demons - an Introduction
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Consensual, Reluctant, Lesbian, Heterosexual, BDSM, DomSub, Spanking, Humiliation, Torture, Gang Bang, Group Sex, Orgy, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Sex Toys, Bestiality, Water Sports, Enema, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Foot Fetish, Needles, Slow, Violent, Prostitution,
Desc: BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 1: Ghosts and Demons - an Introduction - “My name is Alicia. If two years ago someone would have told me I am a slut and a whore, I might have sued them. I was a well-behaved girl and very well able to keep my darker fantasies a secret. I also was a self-proclaimed lesbian after my husband of seven years left me for his secretary. Since then I decided all men are pigs. So how come that by now I welcome any man with a functioning cock to ravage my ass-hole or send his spunk down my throat – even in that order?”
My name is Alicia. If two years ago someone would have told me I am a slut and a whore, I might have sued them or at least threatened with it. I was a well-behaved girl, conscious of other people's opinions and very well able to keep my darker fantasies a secret. I was a well-respected businesswoman with my own graphic design studio. I also was a self-proclaimed lesbian after my husband of seven years divorced me to live with his secretary. Since that day I decided all men are pigs. So how come that by now I'd welcome any man with a functioning cock to ravage my ass-hole or send his spunk down my throat — even in that sequence?
The reason is that I am a whore and a slut — I always was. There have been times when I thought differently, but I guess I was fooling myself. You see, if two years ago someone would have walked up to me and pointed out an anonymous man telling me to suck him off, I would have turned crimson and would have yelled at him to piss off. Today my little heart surges at the mere thought — and my pussy starts flowing. Or rather my cunt, as I call it now.
One might say I have come a long way, or fallen deep, depending on one's outlook. But I know that isn't true. I have always been like this. I just didn't admit to it until someone pointed it out to me. That someone owns me now, I am her property. She made me her slave and in doing so, set me free. Yes, you'd call that a contradiction. I would too, but right now I know better. It set me free to do whatever she asked me to do. It pleases me to obey. No, it more than pleases me — I would die if she left me.
Before we go on, let me first invite you to the house where I was born and where I lived the biggest part of my life. It was mine, I'd inherited it, but I wonder if it was a house at all. In the darkest hour of the night it felt more like a tall, huge skeleton of shadows — the belly of a crouching dragon. I stumbled through it on bare feet, feeling my way through velvet darkness, sensing the cool shrouds of familiar ghosts grazing my face. Don't be afraid, to you they would have been perfectly harmless — I'd be surprised if you'd even have felt their presence. You see, they were entirely mine; they were the demons of my youth.
My house was old. It stood near a lake at the outskirts of a sprawling town in the foothills of a northeastern state where winters are cruel and autumns spectacular. The house creaked with the smallest breeze and there was always a corner where water would seep in when it rained. Sometimes the basement flooded. During daytime it echoed with the sounds of emptiness, only occasionally interrupted by the murmurs of a lonely voice. But at night the ghosts rushed in to fill the void — and to rob me of my sleep.
Firstly, there was the silent ghost of my father. It was as cold in death as he was in life — an ambitious immigrant who never allowed his warmth to show through need to climb socially and be accepted in the country of his dreams. But he was gone. And all he left behind for his neglected youngest daughter was this skeleton of a house — plus the eternal certainty that she was inadequate.
Then there was the ghost of my mother, who always knew how to behave — outwardly. And more specifically, who knew how her daughter should behave. There was never a question about what I might have wanted, or even what I might have been able to do or be. My small fingers were trained and molded to conquer the piano during endless afternoons with cruel taskmasters who were more interested in my flirting mother than my limited talents. They taught me how to play. I even started teaching others. But after my mother died, I never touched a key again. Yet, her ghost wailed in there every night to keep me feeling guilty of wasting a talent I never had.
Then there was that other ghost, a demon really. In its own seductive way it was more evil, more treacherous than the other two combined. It was the ghost of my older brother George, who showed me his hard erection when I was ten years old. Over time he taught me how to take it down my narrow throat, suck it to completion and swallow its salty essence. More than that, he taught me to like it and in the end, to need it. He warped my mind till I was proud of my skills. He succeeded in turning me into this girl who offers to suck off boys' cocks in high school to get the attention she never gets otherwise. He made me into a cock-sucking slut. And then he died in an accident.
One more ghost kept me awake at night and even haunted me during daytime. It was the only one I felt was benign. The one that kept me sane, I hope. It was the ghost of my older sister Barbara, who died when I turned eighteen, leaving me in a sobbing pool of misery. The death of Barbara was the ultimate disaster. I always thought she was the only human being I could share my fears and defeats with, even the dark and embarrassing ones. She was the one who didn't laugh when I bared my pathetic soul.
The death of Barbara was more than just a heart breaking loss. I felt betrayed. It was then that I learned there must be a Power somewhere who needs to punish me at every turn of my miserable life. The memory of Barbara grew in my mind. The loss also grew over the years. It made the ghost, although benign, into maybe the most devastating one to plague me.
It kept reminding me that no one loves me.
Ah yes ... then there of course was this other presence. Not a demon, really. Not even a ghost, as its owner was still alive. But it was there and it was evil enough to cause turmoil in my mind. It was the memory of my husband, the man who once lived with me in that huge house. He made it feel less empty for a few years. He made me feel noticed, wanted. And his cock was the most beautiful I ever sucked.
Of course he left me. Everybody leaves me in the end, I now know. Especially the ones who claim they love me. He slept with his secretary for more than a year before I discovered it — how pathetically cliché. In a powerless rage I threw him out of the house, then fought a long and bitter struggle over divorce. Even when at last the curtain fell, I knew that I would take him back in the blink of an eye — him and his glorious cock. But in the end all I had left was this skeleton house and the demons that lived in it.
I loved my husband. I guess I still love him. But deep down I now accept that he could not have acted differently. Betraying me is the natural thing to do. Loving someone is like nursing a futile emotion. Eventually it will wither in the garish light of reality.
I deserve what happens to me. I do. I deserve all the things my world has in store for me — and then some.
After I met my Mistress the silhouettes of a new certainty started to grow in my tortured mind. They were out-of-focus at the start, but slowly solidified. In the end they became an outline of who I really was. A gate to pass through into another world where I would be able to accept who I am and at last — at least — be loved for that.
But between knowing and accepting that was a long and arduous road. I longed to take that road and yet I fought every mile of it, until pure exhaustion helped me see how pointless it was to struggle against the blizzard of fate. More so because all the struggling didn't bring me one step closer to where I thought I had to go. To the contrary, like the proverbial lost person in a feature-less landscape I could only admit that I'd been walking in circles.
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