I'm rather fond of being put on a pedestal, only to be absolutely ravaged afterwards.

I'm not sure if this is a 'thing' or not, but I enjoy being the object of a man's desire. Their attention, their lust, their primal urging. A trophy at the end of an incredible journey. In a sense, I enjoy being chased, being desired, being the woman that most men would mortgage their future for just a night of passion.

But what really brings me to my personal sub space, is when the man wins his trophy and relishes in the fruits of his labor. He'll seize his opportunity and completely dominate and use me. In a manner that suits him. To be twisted and turned, re-positioned and manipulated, ordered and challenged. To be this bespoke trophy fuck toy for him.

This dichotomy is rather appealing to me. To be up on a pedestal, admired and glorified one moment. And the next moment, to be pinned underneath him, objectified and disgraced. That does it for me. This contrast, this dichotomy. As our bodies are rocking in sync with one another, I often ask which role he truly wanted me to be in. His trophy or his object. That's when my mind starts to drift away.

Afterwards, as I'm trying to regain any semblance of composure and decorum, there's a thing that the man can say that completely mind fucks me. That I was his best fuck ever. Or that was the hottest sex ever. Something to that extent.

By him saying that, it places me right back on a pedestal. But it's different pedestal from our original one. It's a pedestal where my hair is disheveled, stockings torn, throat sore, bottom smacked. He'll always remember what I looked like with his cum on my face, kneeling looking up at him. To be told that I was a man's best fuck, completely my emotional rollercoaster. I'm put back on a pedestal, and perhaps the one that I should have always been on.