The Master of Gor
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The Master of Gor
It is said that life reserves unexpected, disconcerting, sometimes unacceptable nuances; it is our choice to grasp them, make them our own, accept them for what they are, showing a courage that often does not belong to us. I, as a soul who is afraid of herself to the point of hiding every disturbance she feels in her body when it does not meet the standards of a normal romantic relationship, accepted these nuances.
That ethereal character I used to dream next to me, during the imaginary scenes experienced in solitude in my old room, when I was still a teenager and worried about pleasing someone, always accompanied me in the years to come. He would materialize and, with every order he gave me, I obeyed, always waiting for that wave that from my lower belly grew, grew, until I felt the joy, the long-awaited pleasure.
Then, harried, I would hide every object, every fetish used, because eventually I would be so ashamed that I would be crushed by it. The ropes, the gag and the belts, were evidence of my deviance, of my diversity, useful only to grow an urge that I wanted to erase, but instead fed. Once the scene was over, I was back to being that simple, sensitive little girl, so affable, polite, reserved, collecting praise for school, compliments for her sharp intelligence, and much affection from her parents.
So what was wrong with her? Why did I need to do those things, to prepare those scenes? Maybe it was pleasure calling me, or maybe it was the need to feel bad, to transgress the many rules imposed, and thus to seek punishment at all costs. Now I've figured it out, and I want to tell you, my name is Vera Cornwell and this is my story.
That ethereal character I used to dream next to me, during the imaginary scenes experienced in solitude in my old room, when I was still a teenager and worried about pleasing someone, always accompanied me in the years to come. He would materialize and, with every order he gave me, I obeyed, always waiting for that wave that from my lower belly grew, grew, until I felt the joy, the long-awaited pleasure.
Then, harried, I would hide every object, every fetish used, because eventually I would be so ashamed that I would be crushed by it. The ropes, the gag and the belts, were evidence of my deviance, of my diversity, useful only to grow an urge that I wanted to erase, but instead fed. Once the scene was over, I was back to being that simple, sensitive little girl, so affable, polite, reserved, collecting praise for school, compliments for her sharp intelligence, and much affection from her parents.
So what was wrong with her? Why did I need to do those things, to prepare those scenes? Maybe it was pleasure calling me, or maybe it was the need to feel bad, to transgress the many rules imposed, and thus to seek punishment at all costs. Now I've figured it out, and I want to tell you, my name is Vera Cornwell and this is my story.
It is said that life reserves unexpected, disconcerting, sometimes unacceptable nuances; it is our choice to grasp them, make them our own, accept them for what they are, showing a courage that often does not belong to us. I, as a soul who is afraid of herself to the point of hiding every disturbance she feels in her body when it does not meet the standards of a normal romantic relationship, accepted these nuances.
That ethereal character I used to dream next to me, during the imaginary scenes experienced in solitude in my old room, when I was still a teenager and worried about pleasing someone, always accompanied me in the years to come. He would materialize and, with every order he gave me, I obeyed, always waiting for that wave that from my lower belly grew, grew, until I felt the joy, the long-awaited pleasure.
Then, harried, I would hide every object, every fetish used, because eventually I would be so ashamed that I would be crushed by it. The ropes, the gag and the belts, were evidence of my deviance, of my diversity, useful only to grow an urge that I wanted to erase, but instead fed. Once the scene was over, I was back to being that simple, sensitive little girl, so affable, polite, reserved, collecting praise for school, compliments for her sharp intelligence, and much affection from her parents.
So what was wrong with her? Why did I need to do those things, to prepare those scenes? Maybe it was pleasure calling me, or maybe it was the need to feel bad, to transgress the many rules imposed, and thus to seek punishment at all costs. Now I've figured it out, and I want to tell you, my name is Vera Cornwell and this is my story.
That ethereal character I used to dream next to me, during the imaginary scenes experienced in solitude in my old room, when I was still a teenager and worried about pleasing someone, always accompanied me in the years to come. He would materialize and, with every order he gave me, I obeyed, always waiting for that wave that from my lower belly grew, grew, until I felt the joy, the long-awaited pleasure.
Then, harried, I would hide every object, every fetish used, because eventually I would be so ashamed that I would be crushed by it. The ropes, the gag and the belts, were evidence of my deviance, of my diversity, useful only to grow an urge that I wanted to erase, but instead fed. Once the scene was over, I was back to being that simple, sensitive little girl, so affable, polite, reserved, collecting praise for school, compliments for her sharp intelligence, and much affection from her parents.
So what was wrong with her? Why did I need to do those things, to prepare those scenes? Maybe it was pleasure calling me, or maybe it was the need to feel bad, to transgress the many rules imposed, and thus to seek punishment at all costs. Now I've figured it out, and I want to tell you, my name is Vera Cornwell and this is my story.
