Embracing His Inner Hyde Part One

"There's a shock factor. It's very hot," he concluded.  I laughed.

"Yeah, I'll say," I replied, thinking once more how lucky I was to encounter this man who enjoyed saying dirty things to me in chat and over the phone.  And how ******* fabulous it will be to meet him at the end of month.  He turns me on in ways that many of my gentlemen writers do, but he has a few things that are sort of his trademark acts.  One of them is his love of dirty talk.  And his mastery of said dirty talk.

Filthy, really.  Words like "****" and "****" and "****" and choice phrases like "I want to rape your ***."  These are not for conversation in polite society.  And it's precisely that fact that gives him such a charge.  It certainly makes my ***** wet.  Writing about it now, I feel myself squirming on my chair, remembering his voice in my ear saying such stuff about an hour ago.  We were on the phone, and he launched into it after we'd been joking about something. 

He does that.  He'll transition rapidly from the well spoken professional man to a more primitive creature.  The transformation is akin to that seen in RL Stevenson's classic work, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  The civilized businessman, husband and father becomes a bit of beast.  Two very distinct personifications.  Elementary Freudian devotees would consider my lover's Jekyll side as exemplifying the ego (rational), his Hyde side the id (instinctive).  I guess I have my share of that duality, for I feel completely irrational when he begins to talk dirty.  My body responds instinctively, nipples hardening and breath becoming shallow as my lover whispers his wicked words.  I blush and long to have him near me...beside me...inside me, thrusting his hard shaft into my welcoming ****.

While the act is lovely, the language is in some ways even lovelier.  At least to me, it is.  It's one of the reasons I've been content with correspondence for so many months, why chat has sufficed.  The words evoke enough of a response in my brain that my body's stimulated.  The pleasure centers light up when a man writes something dirty to me.  They explode in gold and red fireworks when the words come from his lips to my ears.  And I ***.  Intensely.

After I'd settled down a bit, and we'd joked about my needing to pack an oxygen tank for our rendezvous, for he never fails to leave me gasping for air, I got up the nerve to ask him a question.  His answer was pretty much what I'd figured.  Except for one word he used.

That word fascinated the hell out of me.

As does he.

milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
1 Response Jan 9, 2013

lol such an interesting one