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The feeling was so invasive and restricting I started to overheat with desire. I had never felt so horny and humiliated before. The other thing I couldn't help but notice, was how wet I continued to be. It seemed like the plug, pushing on some tight, throbbing glands deep inside me, caused my pussy to gush. "Mmm, I think she enjoys the taste of her own, naughty cunt," the woman teased. Mistress tweaked the lock and the plug, then spanked me hard. "That's because she's training to enjoy the pleasures she's given, not the ones she desires." The woman removed her fingers from my lips and I was left only with the hauntingly sweet aftertaste or my sexual hunger. The women chattered for a moment as they refilled their glasses and Mistress led me to the other side of the room. "I've decided a punishment for you, dear," Mistress explained, softly. I thought the plug was my punishment. Was there more to it? I tried to stop thinking so negatively and just embrace what my mistress wanted for. I need to know what the problem is." I kept my voice soft and non accusatory.She sat and just stared at me. "What the hell are you talking about, Jerry? Are you getting paranoid in your old age? Are you accusing me of something? Why the hell don't you just get off my back." She then rose and stalked out of the room. I heard our bedroom door slam shut.I sat, a bit stunned. I certainly didn't expect that kind of reaction. Mary had never spoken to me with that tone or level of disrespect. My eyes widened - that was the word I was looking for. Disrespect, over the past few months I detected a level of disrespect, a slight contempt maybe? Perhaps a bit of condescension in her tone? Was I being paranoid? I didn't think so, I wasn't imagining things. Well, I wouldn't wait as I had done years ago - I would discover what the hell was going on. I slept in the guest suite that night.She came out of the bedroom the next morning red eyed and teary and totally apologetic. We made kissy kissy and.
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Williams made us do that exercise in seventh grade where he’d show a photo of a group of people and then ask us to tell him about the third one from the left, or something, and we couldn’t mention their color or nationality. We could say, ‘The tall dark-haired one with her arm around the short guy next to her, but we couldn’t say ‘The black girl,’ even if she was the only dark-skinned girl in the picture. We had to talk about the ‘short girl with the black hair and straight bangs’ without talking about the ‘Asian’ girl. It was a real pain, but I guess it got us thinking about other characteristics than skin color.”“Yeah. The problem is that you can’t recognize skin color then,” Jasmine said. “I like the color of my skin. I like yours, too.”I’d laid in my rough sketch and started mixing paints on my palette. Talking about the color of her skin made me realize that it wasn’t just one color. There were places where it seemed much lighter and where the streak of light fell, it had spots.

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