In a nutshell, I'd been drinking one night when I started browsing theinternet. I was only looking for a little harmless cyber-sex, but Ihappened upon...a sex slave site that featured a woman; she was calledWendy-whore, and she spent her entire life being used as a sex slave.Well those erotic images of Wendy-whore servicing a never-ending paradeof anonymous cocks got me fantasizing about what it would be like to besomebody's personal sissy slut. Perhaps it was the beer that had subduedmy. For him, it hadn’t been a long, long time. It was yesterday, last night, an hour ago. That letter destroyed their friendship. After a short, bitter phone call–‘I have nothing to say’ was all she told him, in a voice as cold as ice–they had no more contact for more than fifteen years. —- He tried to forget, again and again. He sought out therapists and talked it out with them for years, he meditated, he read self-help books–‘Letting Go,’ ‘Surviving the Loss of a Love,’ ‘Moving On’–but her. I hear a click as a bottle cap is flipped open. He starts to dribble an ice cold fluid on to my legs while the vibrator continues to buzz inside me. He draws a line up my leg and down the other to my ankle. He starts again and draws his line from the top of my pussy up to my breasts where he cirlces each one. He stops, but not before adding a couple of drops to each nipple.He starts to rub in the fluid first at my feet. He massages firmly, but gently. He starts to massage up my legs working the. For the next several weeks, I did not see the couple until there was a knock at my door late one Sunday afternoon.I should mention a habit that I had developed over the past years of living in my village. Sundays were cooking days for me. I would prepare soups and stews, which I decanted into smaller containers and froze in my chest freezer. In this manner, I did not have to endure the daily grind of cooking for myself. I always had a plethora of meals that I could thaw and warm for my daily.