Dear Stephanie

You know me, a little. You know me well enough to know that I’m a gentleman, that I’m respectful, polite, kind, interested.

And, you know, now – now that we’ve talked a little more, now that you read what I wrote about you weeks ago – that I want you.

I trust this is unlikely to change anything between us. I don’t presume that you want me, and I understand and respect the various obstacles that stand in our way, even if you do want me, even if you do want to give yourself to me as I’d like.

I do want you.

I want to choke you. Not, possibly, as hard as you might like to be choked.

I want to hit you. Not, possibly, as hard as you might like to be hit.

And, more than anything, I want to take pleasure from you, to use you, to leave you spent, sore, happy.

As I said, I don’t imagine these particular wants of mine are likely to be fulfilled, and if they are, I don’t imagine they will be soon.

That’s ok. I’m a big boy. I can happily drink the drinks you pour me, behave myself exactly as I always have done, and no one will be the wiser.

But now, now that you’ve stopped by here, now that we’ve opened up just a little to one another, you will, at least, have a sense of the filth that runs through my mind when I see you.

And I like that thought.

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