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Once upon a time, I was a polite and God-fearing young man who enjoyed alcohol-induced missionary sex in a darkened room with women I actually knew. People generally described me as "such a nice boy."
...And along came a nymphomaniacal little avatar of Venus, who introduced me to the wonders of violent sex. A year later... I'm addicted. Which is all well and good, except there's really no clear way to establish at a glance who shares these appetites. The girl at the coffeeshop wearing the fishnets and the fuck-me boots might well be pure vanilla; the polite, bespectacled girl wearing a nice sweater in the corner might secretly crave a ballgag and a monoglove.
...And so now here I am. I've just split up on splendidly amiable terms with a really wonderful girl... but, sadly, she was a touch vanilla for my taste, so I figure the split can't be all bad. Now I find my fevered imagination filling once again with visions of bound wrists and ecstatic moans...
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