Cut From The Same Cloth

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Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Dom.

You and I are nothing alike.

Everything I have ever put into words on here is unmistakably unique. Undeniable in that it brings with it pure, unfiltered heart.

Vulnerability. Emotion. Passion.

Exposure, of my most internal and personal mental images, transcribed for the minds of others and articulated poetically with ease. All driven from the experience in having done it before and paying close attention when I did.

Nothing fabricated. Nothing regurgitated.

No two posts alike and there are thousands of them.

I state this, as a reminder to the men of this world, who think they somehow relate to me, who believe that they earned something from women who submit to them and never take the time to consider why.

I only want the ‘why’.

I will take the submission, but it is the ‘why’ that I am after.

So I will tell you why so many women today end up with horror stories about the man they gave their submissive state too. It sure as fuck isn’t because you fucking earned it, Mr. Dom.

Nope, the reason why is because she watched 50 Shades and realized she wanted the movie, and then lied to herself that your high school musical version was the same thing. Or maybe it wasn’t 50 Shades, or any movie or book, but she needed to fill a void, and she hated it. She convinced herself and ignored the red flags because it was eating her alive to not have this experience.

She wanted it. Bad.

Really bad. So bad she fought her better judgment.

You were there, with a flogger and rope. You are no fucking hero for existing.

Don’t get it twisted. I am not like you and never fucking would be.

Be it running a business, a family, a woman’s mind and body, or even a blog, there is no ‘better than’ from where I stand. The singular thing you can really say you know about me is this blog. Think I am bluffing on the other pompous statements I make?

I earn, like a fucking champ. I eat pussy like they should open up a Nobel Prize category for Cunnilingus. I fuck even better and I will finger you until you hate me for the desire I brought about in you the moment I walked back out through the door so I could pour myself a bourbon. I tie you up, blindfold you, and make that Christian Grey fuck look like a pathetic Showtime movie.

But none of that shit really matters.

What really matters is, that I listen to you. I laugh with you. I genuinely give a fuck about you and it breaks my heart to know yours is ever hurting. I put your head on my chest at night and tell you are beautiful. I make you hate to laugh when know you shouldn’t when we watch TV and the Little People show comes on and I ask if you something is wrong with the TV because everyone looks ‘all smooshy’. You laugh, but you fucking hate that you are laughing, but you do it anyway because I am just too good at this shit.

I am an asshole no doubt, but I am your asshole, Kitten.

And if anyone ever thought once about fucking with you, it is me that they get to deal with. And I look forward to coming to your defense. They get to see the real asshole, in all my angst.

I am no pretender. I write to paint a picture in the minds of the ladies with their hands down their pants at this very moment. And I do it fucking well.

So all you sad and pathetic Xbox 360 types, rocking out in your mom’s basement with your 20-dollar an hour careers, who think tying a girl up makes you something special, think again. You never knew her mind. You missed out on the why. You missed out on the best part.

You convinced her that you are something spectacular that she needs and forced her to relinquish her own identity for your sad pathetic game. That type of guy? Just give up trying to pal up with me. I can sniff your weak shit out from a mile away.


Originally published at The Romantic Dominant.