The Sadist Stateman

He tried to be sweet and kind man, but at his core, he was a nervous and bumbling boy. The woman, whom he knew from the mail room, was gentle, but clearly unimpressed. He was virginal in every sense of the world, and he carried his fear in his fingers and his lips - they trembled, lacking certainty and direction. His cock stayed hard - he was young - but he threw it around her like a batter in little league. After what felt like seconds he was silent and still, his gaze falling downtown over his torso. She kissed his cheek, and got up to clean herself off.
Never had he felt so powerless and so impotent. His body looked soft and doughty now, sticky with shame, heavy with remorse. From that day he resolved to never feel so powerless again.
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She twisted around under his paw, covering her throat under his soft and unworked skin. Moans of elation bubbled up through her lips, her eyes widening with each trickle of air he let into her heaving bare chest. His motions were slow, rhythmic, and methodical - he was a tantric sexual tactician, and he read all the signs. It became almost a clinic assessment - how hot is her groin, how red are her lips, what are her pupils doing, what actions make what sounds, and how loud was she?
It was in this power dynamic that Harper thrived - devoted and serving his lover, but through a mindful and careful system of controls. Yes, he was the one pulling the leash and cracking the whip, cutting off the air and tightening the ropes, but he did it in servitude. The pleasure for him was in giving, and giving people what they so often are too scared to ask for. It was in giving them the things they did not know they wanted, or were too scared to say out loud, that he could truly lead. He brought out a side of people, a visceral and primal side, that most refused to unleash.
This time was no different. As she twisted under his body he felt her climax approaching, her body rocking almost violently, her gasps becoming greedy, and her body hot. Her hands dug at his broad back as she peaked, her nails slicing into his flesh. He came with the sound of her crys filling his ears, it was a sympahony, and it was written by him and performed by a more than willing orchestra. He cleaned the mess off her thigh gently, and kissed her cheek. There they lay, and he held her through the shame and confusion. She was new to this, a stranger to him, and beyond words. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing as she rested on his chest. Her young eyes looked up at him, and she cooed, "Do you need any more?"
He just smiled and laid her head back on his chest. They looked over the cold glacier lake out the chalet window until they fell asleep in the afternoon sun.
As they drifted he smelled her hair and whispered, "If you're happy, I'm happy."