About Ninotchka, the option is a slave.

Ninochka is a pleasant, intelligent woman in every respect (she is a good conversationalist and it's interesting to talk with her on various topics), she is around 35 (I was nearing 45). Dark-haired, without excess fullness, her skin is white, silky.

The question of who she will be for me today—simply a beloved woman, a pagan goddess of sorts, or a submissive slave—is for me to decide. She, as is characteristic of a woman, is more psychologically flexible and will conform; it turns out sweeter usually when my mood and hers coincide. She doesn't state her mood directly, but lets me understand it. During a light dinner (wine, fruit, flowers—by tradition—I bring them) we both

gradually leave behind the day's troubles. Now, sex.

The choice—slave today—I make in the bath, and with a sharp clap of my hands, I summon the slave to serve. Ninochka quickly enters and deftly and joyfully begins to attend.

Washed and dried by the slave's diligent hands—an attempt to kiss the penis right there in the bath is encouraged by a pat on the cheek or sharply stopped with a slap—depending on the mood—I enter the room and sit on the bed. A few minutes later, she appears too, naked, and freezes at the threshold. I order her to put on beads, bracelets, and bring the whip.

And I whip Ninka not just anyhow, but with meaning. Rounded blows to the shoulders mean I want the same rounded movements of her little tongue on the tip of my penis. Having drawn the whip along her back or thighs, I order her to take it deeper into her mouth. Random blows mean the command to caress and nibble the perineum, testicles, thighs. Stronger and more frequent blows—a demand for more intense caresses, the latter, however, is understandable without any explanation.

Often, the whip at first simply slides over the slave's body, even without the sound of a blow. But Ninochka tries hard, I get aroused, and the whip blows become stronger. Sometimes, however, I start hitting harder from the beginning, and then after the second or third lash, Ninka's breathing becomes heavily excited, and her caresses intense. With stronger blows, red stripes remain on my beauty's body, but the whip is light, these stripes quickly disappear, and the look of her silky hide is not spoiled in the least. In any case, I have never seen marks from the whip on Ninochka's body from our past games (unlike bruises, which sometimes remained if I squeezed her harder).

Ninka works diligently and with love, and the view of her from above is simply delightful, her voluptuously arched back, and then the widening of her hips like a harp. This widening in women I terribly love, it is precisely to this widening that most of my whips and spankings go.

Let me explain how I understand the origins of such games. It is quite obvious that in the distant past, the great-grandmothers of today's women repeatedly became the prey of enraged (by battle, hunting, celebration) men. Submission to the warrior's wild will not only often saved their lives in that situation but also contributed to obtaining healthy offspring. Such emotional events could not but leave a trace in the subconscious of men and women living today. Hence, just as we, once diurnal animals, subconsciously continue to fear the dark, for example, the night forest, we also crave to experience the thrilling sensations from the lives of our distant ancestors: the fury of battles and the feeling of complete possession (or slavish submission). The natural image of a man here corresponds to the image of a powerful warrior who needs no additional devices (like bindings, shackles, etc.) to compel a woman to obedience.

To prolong the game, at the last moment I pull Ninka's lips away from my tool, ready to prematurely spill. Ninochka's head is thrown back, and her lips are so soft, warm, and waiting, her mouth half-open, her eyes shining—I could never decide when her eyes shine brighter and stronger: in these minutes, or when she jerks beneath me in a classic orgasm.

I thrust into her mouth with a long, deep kiss. Having kissed my fill, I take up the whip again. Ninochka understands and quickly wraps her lips around the penis—our voluptuous game continues.

When the danger of eruption intensifies, and breaks for kisses no longer help, I order her to give me a ride. Ninka calls this the horsey game. She gets on her knees by the bed, leaning on it with her elbows (the variant, lying on her stomach on the bed—but it's slightly less convenient). And I settle on her "rump," lightly squeezing the sides of my little horse with my knees. My weight rests on her thighs, it's not heavy for her, and my penis sticks out in the air, touching nothing, allowing the game to continue. Ninka's body begins to play beneath me, and I activate her movements with the little whip. During the horsey game, it's convenient to whip the slave both on the shoulders and with a backswing—on the thighs and butt. Ninochka often plays along, pretending to be lazy, she provokes stronger, drawn-out blows of the whip on her thighs and butt. Sometimes I get carried away and start whipping her harder than perhaps I should. But in the role of a horse, Ninka is quite submissive, it's hard for her to show disobedience, and if she does start to show obstinacy, the whip quickly brings her to submission. Therefore, the elastic, tasty female body voluptuously plays beneath me exactly as long as I want. Naturally, I don't overdo it. When I see that she is tired and sweating heavily (and the whip hurts more on a sweaty body), I get off my horse and send her to the bath. While Ninochka washes off the sweat, I also cool down a bit, and the game can continue. By the way, the horsey game is very effective if the woman is hindered by any extraneous negative emotions; the combination of physical exertion and sexual sensations usually contributes to a quicker removal of the negative mood. In this case, it is sometimes useful to ride the horse a bit longer.

I note that the sexual motif of the woman-horse is by no means original; it is easily traced already in ancient myths. For example, the magical horse Al-Buraq of the Prophet Muhammad is often depicted with a woman's face.

Episodes of riding, licking, and other games alternate with me entering Ninochka, not bringing it to the finale yet, however. She is wet, and the process is accompanied by a juicy squelching. If I want to distract myself and wait a bit, I order wine or vodka to be brought; Ninochka, beautifully swaying her hips, gets up and in a couple of minutes appears with a tray with a shot glass and a small dish with an appropriate snack. The first time she did this on her own initiative, and I liked it.

After an hour or a little more of such pastime, I can no longer prolong the sweet torment, and I fall on Ninka from above or order her to present herself from behind. She expects this, and usually within a few minutes begins to move intensely beneath me, as strongly as she rarely manages under the whip during the horsey game. I try to prolong her and my pleasure as long as possible. Then all that's left for me is to enjoy the explosion of my sensations and the sight of her half-open mouth in languor and voluptuously closed or, conversely, brightly burning eyes. In ecstasy, Ninochka is even more beautiful than in the pose of a submissive slave caressing the penis. Then I lie relaxed on her, and Ninochka wraps her arms around me, doesn't want to let go, forming with her body a featherbed sweeter than which is hard to imagine. According to her, I am "light as a feather," and it's not heavy for her. This is hard for me to believe, and after a while I lie down next to her, and she curls up under my arm, her head on my forearm, and I, sinking into sweet slumber, lazily caress her body, hair, and the bumps of her nipples with my free hand. Before dozing off, I cover her with a blanket or comforter—she is more sensitive to cold than I am.

The goddess game involves her legs before my eyes, my kisses of these divine legs, lips, and everything else, every fold on her body that she wants me to caress. In the rank of a goddess, she is allowed to kick her worshipper with a divine foot. But more on that another time.

In memory of how good we had it, a happy and un-boring life to you in your overseas distance. Your place, to my regret, is still vacant, a r k h о n t _ @ r a m b l e r . r u