Helgapataki Chaturbate's Profile

Languages: English

Location: Russia

Interested In: Women, Men, Trans

Age: 24

Body Type: Slim/Petite

Helgapataki Chaturbate - After two weeks in a row if I try.

You may scream if you wish. I accept training as a fashion show. By the end of the first week you will have learned how to unzip your skirt to get the most effect out of the pant legs. As we train you, I will remove the pant leg bands and help you up to and over the rail. By the end of the first week you will have learned the correct way to remove the band from the hip. The recommended clothing for a night in is a pair of black silk boxers, or a pair of white silk boxers and a pair of black-lined, high heels. Long, thin, vaulted heels. Mr. Newhouse will accompany me to the club each Thursday evening and make us an appropriate dinner. (It is a casual dinner, served in candlelight.) Four hours after we arrive at Mr. Newhouse's residence he will escort me to my room in the grand ballroom. I will kneel in the duvet in front of the large, open window watching Mr. Newhouse, while he prepares for our evening. It is a public room, so it is appropriate that we should have a private time. After we have had a few minutes to enjoy the view I will rise and remove the guernica. I will turn and face the opposite wall, and lower my eyes until I can feel Mr.

Newhouse's presence behind me. He will whisper in my ear that my dress and skirt are indeed at the beckon. I will raise my eyes, but will have to lift them again. I will be kneeling before the window with my back to the moving stream of lights, my legs dangling from the arch. If I should look at my reflection in the window, I will see a shaft of the same color as my dress, a white french silk sheet. It will also look like the streak of fire that I have against my skin. I will place my hands behind my head, palms up, and will bring my knees to me neck, bringing the middle of my thighs up over my white tank top. If I can feel the cold air wafting across my ribs, over the broken bone, over the washy patch of burned skin, across the vast burning patch of my tummy, against my delicate outer thighs, I will keep moving my legs as far up my body as my restraints will allow. If my clothes should be removed, I will resume my position kneeling in front of the window, my back to the moving stream of lights. There will be an edge to my dress, a small cutting to my flesh, if I can get my hands free. If an unseen hand can slip down and tear the line from my chest, across my navel to my belly button, I will notice that the knife has cut a small strip of flesh across my neck. The knife only goes so far. A sharp tug, and the tear is gone. A different stream of crimson liquid, so carefully placed on the spot it was cut from, the same as the sharp edge of the knife. If I could see, I would see a figurehead, fashioned from thin plastic, Mr. Newhouse's.

It will rise from the ground, from my waist, and cup my navel, moving at a snail's pace. Everything will be made as intricate as possible with this figurehead, placed in a sophisticated cage. If I were standing with my back to the figurehead, I would notice that each of the intricate pieces were mounted on elaborate stands, as if someone had designed each piece himself or herself. The figurehead will move, twist, turn and move in precise time, almost like a sculptor placing a piece of art into the world. If I were looking at this mouth, I would see a series of lips, the perfect height, width and length for a kiss. I would kiss the figurehead, inhale deeply the scent of my own arousal. I would kiss the spot where the mouth would meet my skin. I would circle my lips with the tips of my thumbs, then move to the place where the mouth would meet my body. I would deepen my kiss, losing myself in my mind. I would feel my body respond to my touch, like a wave of electricity striking at the soles of my feet, striking slowly at the sole of my right boot. I would feel my skin perfectly at home on that soft patch of fire under the collar of the skirt. I would run my fingers over the band of light on that delicate ankle, the fire crackling in the darkness. I would look down at the lace, shimmying on the soles, tracing the lines on my bare foot. If I could see, I would see a soft, milky white, an oily sheen of moisture coating the lace. I would smile slightly, gazing down at the lace. I would know that I was kissing her again, and very slowly, as if it were never happening..

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