Not Like Other Girls
She had rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes
And I knew without asking she was into the blues
She wore scarlet begonias tucked into her curls
I knew right away she was not like other girls
I’ve always found peace in the girl that likes thrift store shopping, not for the frugal reasons, but because she can’t find what she wants to accent her uniqueness elsewhere.
She listens to Fleetwood Mac. She listens to Jane’s Addiction. She thinks Britney Spears is void of art. She is strong. Confident. Needs nobody.
She. Is not like other girls.
My goodness, it’s easy to fall for that girl. I’ll gladly pull the dyed hair of that punk rock bitch and force a rebel yell from her lungs as I feed her all this man has to give.
So tough. Until she succumbs to my will. It’s so much hotter to yank the hair of the Alpha girl. The “not give a fuck” girl. Winning her heart is hard. But it’s so much more of a gift when you get it.
And when I do. It’s orgasms galore. Eat her as if I owe her something, cause in my mind, I do. Make her kick and squirm and cum and cum and cum again and watch her peel herself off the carpet, after I ate her, fingered her, and fucked her into oblivion.
That strong bitch. Now weakened from the passion I just gave her.
Fuck yes. That girl. The alpha submissive. The thrift store girl. The artist. The punk rocker. The “go fuck yourself” attitude. The flowers in her hair.
Every time. Turns me to mush.
Originally published at The Romantic Dominant.