Why do men cut their hair?
His was perfect: copper colored and falling in waves over his vanilla cream shoulders.
His nipples were the color of rose buds, same as his mouth : and muscular back made the perfect canvas
for a Japanese mural.
Too much ink.
Right up to his perfect hands.
He smelled of exotic spices, like the closed doors in ancient medicine shops.
Like rain forest shamanism.
His Lilly white skin was almost always burned from the sun, cherry pink and hot to the touch.
Slick wet aloe would have helped him.
Slick, slippery wet aloe on all over the back of this ginger who
didn’t know enough to stay out of the sun.
He didn’t say much, he hardly ever spoke, long lashes lowered, steel gray eyes that flashed.
He had holes in his shoes: someone said he was homeless, maybe just in jail.
The important thing isn’t his sketchy past. What matters is that he’s fine now.
Only nosy people ask too many questions.
He likes a good bourbon and he says he loves great tits.
He makes the women wonder how a forty year old manages to look twenty five.
He works out a lot but stays fairly thin.
He’s unassuming. He’s quiet.
His hands are perfect. Soft. Nicely shaped. His forearms like ivory velvet.
On rainy Thursday afternoons he’s the sort that would occupy a woman’s thoughts.
Not inflicting any real pain mind you, but wouldn’t it be nice to see him sitting on the floor, wearing black lipstick with a rope in his mouth?
Wouldn’t it be nice to see tears of gratitude streaming from his guy liner, down over pasty white pancake makeup .
Wouldn’t it be nice to give that copper hair a pull, knowing he’d pull your hair twice as hard?
That’s all I’m saying. He looks like some kind of angel and smells like an antique box from an import store.
He’s a blessing.
He’s curse too when you lose your heart.
This is loving him.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/d03qxr/loving_him_part_1_a_short_story_nsfw_light_bsdm