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