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Her hands danced over me as she moved to get a better angle of attack. I loved those hands. Sometimes hard and firm, demanding, authoritative, impossible to resist, and sometimes they were gentle, caressing, floating over me like a sensual hovercraft. She had a talent for guiding me where she needed me to be.

She rarely messed up, but there were some times when something happened and she lost me for a bit. But she always found her way back, touching and stroking.

Her demands were my order. She suggested by the slightest pressure HERE that I needed to move, and I responded as fast as I could. She was a master of control.

She never moved me simply to waste energy. There was always a purpose. It might be a purpose unknown to me, one that I couldn't divine, but when her plans were revealed it was always a master stroke and I surged with joy when I became her instrument.

Oh, I was in love with her.

I couldn't wait until she paid attention to me. Even when we weren't sweating and cursing, putting forth energy and effort, panting and moaning I still loved her touches. There were times when she would hold me, cradle me in her arms, use that oil I loved so much, warmed to just the right temperature, and she would massage it into me. I could feel her love when she did that.

I craved her attention. It didn't matter if she was using me to practice on, or if she was using me to actually gain a goal she had in mind, but her touch burned in my body like very few thing I could name.

I was shattered the day it all ended.

Inconsolable. Desolate. Broken past all repair. I couldn't understand what happened. One moment, the thrills were going joyously up and down my shaft like normal, the next, darkness. I knew there was something wrong when I heard the first creaking of a sound, the first hint of more to come.

I prayed that the sound meant it wouldn't end, and I worked hard to keep myself together enough to serve her once more.

But in the end, it was too much. One too many strikes in the wrong place, and I was torn up.

To be so fair to her, she knew the instant I broke that something was really wrong. She had counted on me to tell her and to make sure that I didn't give under any but the most extreme pressure, but in the end, I failed her.

Lying on the ground, pieces of my heart scattered about, I knew the abject humiliation of failing to protect her, and failing to let her know when I was near my end. All that was left was to get the broom and sweep my splinters up, and toss me in the bin.

I prayed that her next bo would be as strong as I was and would love her as much as I did. I prayed that in my final collapse, I didn't leave any shard of myself behind to injure her further. She didn't deserve that. Her opponent had already given her a concussion by accident because of my failure.

If a staff could weep, I was surely crying now. I wish I still had sap to excrete like I used to. But I had a good life.

Please tell me what you think.