I’m intimidating.

I’m told that, over and over.

This always amuses me. If you met me, you’d chuckle at the idea that I’m intimidating. I’m capable of being commanding. Confident. Directive. More often, though, I’m sweet, kind, gentle, warm.

I’m most definitely not intimidating.

If you’re intimidated by me, you’re intimidated by your own fears, your own anxieties, your own desires. I’m harmless. Even – especially – when being rough.

I never, for instance, would tell you to dress for me, to display your body to me, to kneel for me, to beg for me, until you had made abundantly clear that’s what you want, what you need.

I wouldn’t shove my fingers deep into your wet pussy, invite you to a threesome, lead you around a sex party on a leash to be admired by all, unless that were something you wanted, unless I were exposing you to your own desires.

I wouldn’t take ownership of your orgasms, of your pussy, unless you wanted me to.

I wouldn’t feed you my cock, after waiting for you to beg me for it, if the begging hadn’t been authentic, emanating not from my desire to feel the inside of your mouth, but from your need to wrap your lips around my cock, to swirl your tongue around it, to taste and smell me up close, to feel my cum in your throat.

So, you see, I’m pretty sure that what’s intimidating you isn’t me. It’s what’s inside of you that I touch.


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