I Want Your Soregasm

Soft was never my style.

Neither was a lack of confidence, but you know that very well.

You see, you are going to ache for me so intensely that the mere thought of my dominion will soak your panties. By the time you’ve finished reading this, you’ll know I am right.

You will want, so intensely, to the point that with crystal clarity you will see yourself speaking the words out loud, “ouch Daddy! That hurt. Again, please?”

“Of course, princess,” will meet your ears.

You WILL say these words; I know you will. You will speak them with a happy eagerness as you submit your body to me and you will know when you do it, that you are submitting much more than just your body.

You will speak these words. You will. I have no doubt about that. You will speak them with your eyes, mouth, and heart.

This part I know with absolute certainty as if I were handing you a script, which I suppose I am, darling. But don’t go and get confused by the romantic part though cupcake, because if I am one thing, I am rough and there is no brake pedal for my masculine passion once your body is in my grasp.

You can take that sweet guy persona in your head and fucking bite down on it because you are going to be walking funny for the next few days and it will be entirely because of what is very much not nice about me.

Mr. Nice Guy just painted your ass with bruises and your kitty is as tender as it’s ever been. Give me one hour with you and your body will have a hard time forgetting me for a week.

Mr. Buy You Roses, shoving his hardness inside your tenderness, every hole, with a level of aggression that will make you ponder Thermopylae. And what do you do? You fucking beg me for more.

A paradox and a metaphor, my romance gives way to the very fucking raw fact that once I am set in motion, I am a Spartan, and there is not a goddamn thing you can do to slow me down. You are my feeble and weak target; my Persian army. I will take you, have you, break you into a million pieces and put you back together again through a cascading battle of orgasms that pummel your body just like I fucking wanted the whole time.

The business end of my fingers, forcing you to curl up in a ball, as pain from the feeling of being stretched and full will only be suppressed and ignored because the feeling of pleasure far outweighs the fact that I’m pushing you to the limit.

One rocks you and you forget that somehow you have four thick fingers inside, playing Chopsticks on your G spot, A spot, and O spot as my thumb makes your clit dance to the music.

One hand only, and you are my puppet. What should I do with my other one? Or my mouth? Or this thick and hard beautiful cock just sitting here? Whatever I decide, I know it will be rough.

Sore — I want you sore.

I want you contemplating why you want it no other way. I want you sitting in your car in a week, shifting in your seat, feeling the memory of me and wondering why you are suddenly getting wet. I want you to ask yourself if this ache is right or wrong, then I want you to giggle inside and say to yourself, “who fucking cares,” then touch your pussy in memory of what I did to you.

Because have no doubt, you will feel me in every part of your body and soul, and when I am through making the movie 300 come to life all of your holes, I will shock you yet once again, by putting your beautiful face on my chest, kissing your forehead, looking into your eyes like the world revolves around you, and making sure you remember that I fucking adore you.

The paradox. The metaphor. My darkness eventually succumbs to you in the end. And although Mr. Nice Guy just broke you down through pure testosterone…

Never forget — the Persian army won Thermopylae in the end.

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