Three Months of Surrender to a Stranger

In the heart of 2012, I found myself in the arms of a stranger. A man whose name I didn’t know, but whose touch I craved. His home was a sanctuary, a place where I could be free, where I could explore the depths of my desires without judgment.

I remember the first time I stepped into his home. It was a spacious loft, filled with the scent of him. The walls were adorned with his art, abstract pieces that spoke of his soul. He led me to his bedroom, a room that would become my haven for the next three months.

He fed me every night, his hands skillfully preparing meals that were as delicious as they were arousing. The way he handled the food, the way he fed me—it was all a part of his seduction. I would watch him, my eyes never leaving his as he brought the food to my lips, his fingers lingering for a moment before he pulled away.

And then, the sex. It was intense, passionate, and raw. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and he took it. He took me, my body, my soul, and my pleasure. He was relentless, his hands exploring every inch of me, his mouth tasting every part of me.

“I want you to feel me,” he would say, his voice deep and husky. “I want you to feel every inch of me.”

And I did. I felt him, his hardness, his heat. I felt him as he entered me, his body moving in rhythm with mine. I felt him as he brought me to the edge, only to pull me back, teasing me, taunting me.

“I want you to beg for it,” he would say, his eyes locked on mine. “I want you to beg for my cock.”

And I did. I begged, my voice hoarse from the pleasure, from the desire. I begged him to take me, to fill me, to make me his. And he did. He took me, his body moving with a primal intensity, his eyes never leaving mine.

I remember the first time he took me from behind. He bent me over the bed, his hands gripping my hips as he entered me. I gasped, the pleasure overwhelming me. He moved with a raw, animalistic intensity, his body slapping against mine, his grunts filling the room.

“You like that, don’t you?” he would say, his voice filled with a mix of lust and amusement. “You like my dick inside you.”

And I did. I loved it. I loved the way he filled me, the way he stretched me, and the way he made me feel. I loved the way he took me, the way he possessed me, and the way he owned me.

I stayed with him for three months—three months of pleasure, of passion, of desire. Three months of him feeding me, of him taking me, of him making me his. Three months of him owning my body, my soul, and my pleasure.

And then, one day, it was over. He told me it was time for me to leave, that our time together had come to an end. I was heartbroken, devastated. I didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to lose him. But I knew I had to. I knew I had to let him go.

I left his home that day, my heart heavy, my body aching. But I left with a smile on my face, a smile that spoke of the pleasure, the passion, and the desire I had experienced. I left with a smile that spoke of the stranger, the man who had taken me, who had possessed me, who had owned me.

And as I walked away, I knew that I would never forget him, that I would never forget the time we had spent together. I knew that I would always remember the stranger, the man who had shown me the depths of my desires, who had shown me the true meaning of pleasure.

As I walked away, I smiled, a smile that spoke of the stranger, the man who had taken me, who had possessed me, who had owned me. The man who had made me his, who had made me his in every sense of the word.

The end.

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