In Awe of You

Everyone thought John was shy.


I mean… you could call him shy. I wouldn't—but you could, I guess.


When we were in public, he hid behind his glasses. He avoided eye contact unless he had to—and when he did look at you, he stared into your soul.


I'd always nudge him and whisper, “Don't stare like that, Jay. You either make men squirm or make women wet themselves--and not with urine.”


He’d look at me like I was the crazy one.


"Should I make eye contact or not? One minute you’re scolding me for avoiding it, the next you’re saying it’s too much. Pick a struggle."


That was my boyfriend. No middle ground. It was one or the other.


In public, people assumed I wore the pants in the relationship. I can see why.


He leaned into me—a lot.


You see, the podcast alpha males invented what they call green lines...


Or whatever the fuck.


Apparently, they draw imaginary lines to determine who’s dominant based on posture.


I know. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? I promise it’s a real thing. Just Google it.


Anyway.


People decided John was feminine because he leaned into me and decided I was the boss because I’m built like an Amazonian warrior with a voice and attitude to match.


Never mind that, at six foot four, my “feminine” boyfriend towered over my six-foot frame.


But because he leaned, I “wore the pants.”


Let me tell you what a typical night at home looks like.


Watching a movie with John? Impossible. He always starts with his head in my lap.


Yeah, I know. Aww. So sweet.


By the twenty-minute mark, his head is between my thighs, breathing me in like his personal aromatherapy.


I can see your brow rising, and I agree. He's a FREAK.


Ten minutes later, he’s kissing me through whatever I’m wearing. He’ll find my clit through layers of fabric, biting just hard enough to leave little nicks from his perfect teeth—just enough to leave me torn between pushing his head away or holding it tighter.


I've learned not to wear any pants on movie night. He’ll just yank them halfway down and hook my legs over his neck, leaving my coochie wide open like a dish he’s about to devour—completely ignoring my cries for mercy or leniency.


When we’re alone, I might as well be five foot one. He lifts me, tosses me, folds me like a rag doll.


And that’s his favorite part. Folding me.


There’s this position—he folds me like a pretzel, wedges me between his thighs, and strokes himself with my body. Not in a traditional thrust-thrust way. I’m talking full Fleshlight-style—gripping my thighs to push and pull himself through me, using my pussy like it’s molded just for him. No kissing. No teasing. Just raw, animalistic use. And he doesn’t stop until we both cum.


John’s favorite sex toy is me. His personal, six-foot Amazonian warrior Fleshlight.


His second favorite position? Prone bone. I’d say doggy, but my legs give out twenty minutes in—not because I’m lazy. You try taking those strokes and see how long you last.


When I’m twitching from the aftershocks, he crawls over me and really goes to town. The result? An involuntary nap. That kind of nap where your soul briefly leaves your body.


And I swear, the amount of zinc he pumps into me is the reason I’m so hyper.


So anyway.


John and I went out to dinner at this nice little restaurant. Bad neighborhood, but don’t look at me—it was his idea. He’s weird about food.


We had just placed our order when a small gang approached our table.


The leader was clearly into John. You know how pretty he is. Kept touching him, flirting. John, in his infinite politeness, calmly said he was in a committed relationship.


Then the guy made a sign to one of his boys. The asshole behind me placed a hand on my shoulder.


The leader—what’s his name? Doesn’t matter. Let’s call him Asshole One.


Asshole One smirked and said, “Looks like she’s taken now,” nodding to Asshole Two’s hand on me.


John’s eyes followed the movement—down to my shoulder—and hardened.


I watched his jaw clench, and I heard him bite out the words, “Don’t touch her.”


Asshole Two chuckled and slid his hand down my neckline to grab my boob.


I covered my face. I hate violence. I really do.


But there was no other word for what was about to happen except pure, unadulterated violence.


I heard it before I saw it. The sickening crack of a tendon snapping.


Screams followed. Chaos erupted.


My sweet, soft-spoken, supposedly “feminine” boyfriend—famously polite, famously shy—became a fucking hurricane. Bones broke. Ribs shattered. Chairs were smashed over skulls.


By the time our order arrived, the gang was a mangled pile of groans and regret.


John excused himself to the washroom, washed the blood off his hands, came back, paid for our meal—slipping a little extra for the chairs he broke—and picked up our food.


Then he reached for my hand, smiled, and led me out of the restaurant like nothing happened.


And on the way home?


His head was back on my shoulder.


My baby.


Yeah… he’s very effeminate indeed.