Do Bad Boys Grow Up to Become Doms?

He hails from south of NYC,  a tough kid, scrappy, rough around the edges. Grew up sexy, popular, not afraid of a fight. Went to an Ivy League school, got a shine of polish on Him, and the military honed the fighter.

Under that shine, He’s still a mean Bastard. A sadist with a slick veneer of civility. I love that about Him. He can be urbane, genteel, so handsome in His suit and tie, a lion cloaked in lambskin.  He says, sometimes, the most terrifyingly erotic things with just a few words. Words that are on the edge of cruel, words that drip of omens and portents of bad things ahead for me.

I shudder with nerves, goose-flesh rises along my shoulders, as my pussy throbs and weeps dripping ‘tears’ of wanton need.

He does it in so few words. He does it with a surgeon’s precision, knowing just what will bring that burning needy hunger to the surface, to make me twitch and yearn for Him.

I want.

I crave.

He will use me, hurt me, torment me, and make me need Him more than ever, come the weekend.