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Before leaving my apartment that night, I lit bundles of white sage at the altars of my Gods and offered up a pathetic plea that unlike every other time Joey and Brett dragged me out to a club, Marcus wouldn't stop me from meeting someone. Out there was a man who wanted to dominate a short, slim, farmboy gone bad. I needed to meet him.
And could the Gods make this dream guy someone who could easily overpower me in a naked wrestling match? Well hung, naturally. Don't forget the incredible bod.
My usual approach to sex was like a commando raid. Hit him up; get it on; get the hell out. Yet as I prayed, I was overwhelmed by the need for something more. I wanted hot sex, but craved a deep, spiritual bond. More than anything at that moment, I wished for a chance at Love.
Then my little lizard brain went right back to basics.
Someone who wouldn't take shit from me. Oh, yeah. A tall, muscular man with big hands. That fantasy worked, so I grabbed my dick. Spit, grasp, tug. A guy who could silence my mouth. Groan. A stern poppa who knew how to keep his boy under control. A leather-daddy who would tear at my untamable, black curls while he forced me to swallow his cock.
I sucked air between my clenched teeth.