Perversion Process Read Free

ever taken ownership of me like that was they knew I wouldn‟t let them; knew that as much as I might have looked like I was asking for it, there was a tiny part inside me that was holding back, selfishly storing my desire for myself, keeping it in reserve. With Oliver, I‟d 9

    given him everything, risking him tossing it back at me, humiliating me.
    He pulled me down onto the couch and soon I was riding him, his pants pushed down, his cock inside me. I was actually too spent to do much more than cling to him, and that was okay. He wrapped his arms around me and we held each other and hugged and fucked.
    „I guess now I know how you feel about spanking,‟ he said later, laughing, as he fed me cheese and crackers and champagne, not minding when some of the sweet liquid spilled all over me. I waited until the next afternoon to call Christine and thank her  after Oliver had bought me my very own collar, one he later got personalized. Now I can‟t imagine having ever been anything other than a full-fledged pervert, and even have a tattoo that says „His‟ to prove my loyalty. Spankings are a daily occurrence, and yes, we‟ve tested out all those fantasies he mentioned that first night, and many more, though what the future holds, I don‟t know. That‟s for Oliver to decide, and me to bend over and obey.
    10

    Bitch

by Ashley Hind

    Few people can be defined by a single word but I can: that word is bitch. It is all I am now. The title has been conferred upon me and I must live up to it if my heart‟s desire is to be gained. It makes no difference that I am still a partner and chief Arts Advisor for a London interior design firm, or that I am wealthy and beautiful. It is immaterial that I used to be confident and brimming with self-belief, and could trample over another‟s emotions to get what I wanted. For all my strength I had a weakness, and she used it. So everything I am I have to yield now, because I am full of her. She crams my thoughts and swells my heart and bubbles in my veins. I would shout her name from the rooftops, if only I knew it.
    I am utterly obsessed by the female bottom, and that is my weakness. I have seduced hundreds of girls over the years in a vain quest to find the perfect example, becoming more particular and frustrated as my search continued. I love my own body to the point of narcissism.
    I have an effortless hourglass figure and my backside is delectable. It is full but shapely with a fine apple curve, the pale cheeks parted by a narrow but deep split that hides its secrets. The skin is pale and pristine and flawless. All traces of the jet black hairs in my crease and on my mound have been removed by electrolysis. It is 11

    almost perfect, only not quite full enough.
    Antique mirrors line every wall and surface of my bedroom and cheval-glass stands cluster in the corners, all pointing towards my bed. There is not a single angle that is not covered, or a part of me that cannot be seen as I pose naked and fuck myself. I despondently used to think that my own bottom would be as close as I would get to my ideal and that I would never get to experience the bliss of loving its equal. I had only ever seen a better one on a statue in a nearby gallery. I went there often to view its perfection and dream that the stone figure could become real flesh so that I could take her and make her mine. But better still she came, and she took me instead.
    The statue I adore is of Erato, muse of love and erotic poetry. She stands with the cherub Eros clutching at her legs. He looks up at her, his face seemingly a mask of innocence. Yet you can see how tightly he pulls at her, and while she holds aloft an open book in one hand, the other hand is held across her chest, trying to keep her loose gown in place to cover her modesty. But mischievous Eros has already scored a victory, because she is unable to secure all of her gown and his downward pull has exposed her glorious bottom in all its white marble