Friday Night.

Am I reaching for feeling like we made love?

Perhaps I confuse pleasure with love. 

It’s different than it has ever been with a lover. Normally, the pleasure I’ve felt has been the natural byproduct of sex, of stimulating places rife with nerve endings. 

You give me pleasure that my body cannot produce on its own. 

I cried out the first time that I was in ecstasy and it has only intensified. 

So, you see now that I can’t help it. I love you for what you’ve given me: pleasure unmarred by pain. 

I fear that I may frighten you. I must emphasize that it’s a quiet love. 

It’s not a possessive, romantic love. I don’t seek to infringe on your lifestyle or restrict your masculinity, a masculinity so delicious, so hot it would be an embarrassment to even try to impose my will upon it. 

It’s a quiet love born out of gratitude for an invaluable gift. I carry it deep within my blooming flower, a woman’s true heart, for life.

If you stay, it will evolve into a quasi-religious devotion to you, my lord. You may be surprised that such a willful girl will gleefully submit to you! Intellectually, you encourage me to spar. The respect you show for my intellect and, naturally, the respect I have for yours only augments my desire to prostrate myself before you in matters of love and sex.

 

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