Two-Minute Daydream
                   (part 2)

But this was an image that went easy on her.  Not 
physically easy.  Kneeling before her husband that 
day had been one of the more physically painful 
moments of her life.

Concentrating on licking, lightly, when you hurt 
*everywhere* is barely possible.  But she had, 
slowly, led him to a thunderous climax.  Thunderous 
because of just how lightly she had licked.  And 
because it landed squarely in her face.  And because 
her hands were tied behind her back, unavailable to 
do anything about the load of come now flowing ever 
so slowly down her pretty face.

Unable to do anything but kneel there, look up at 
him, while feeling her whole body cry out ... her 
tongue, her breasts, her nipples, wrists, the clamps 
on her labia, pulling them wide, and yes, the large 
bugg-plug firmly buried in her tender bottom.

It had taken some time to show how she could insert 
it ... to lubricate, and to gradually work it in.  
She gasped uncontrollably when it finally hit home.  

It was too much, but turned out to be only the 
beginning.

I tell you, this image ... that day ... was *easy*.  
Psychologically more acceptable than ... well, the 
rest.

Maybe you've never been there.  Almost certainly you 
haven't.

She would find herself imagining even the *much 
worse* things.  Why?

It was so thoroughly *awful*, wasn't it?  It was 
surely unpleasant, not something someone would ask 
for, or ordinarily accept.

So why think about it?  And why do it?

And why would she come so raggedly ... horsely ... 
enthusiastically ... animally ... at the end of such 
an evening?

Why were these the most astonishing and wholly, 
physically fulfilling moments of her life?