They tell me I'm different, somehow...

Sure, every girl hears she's special. An unadorned appeal for her favor, as timeless as it is artless.

But that's not what they say. They say 'different'. They're describing something objective, discussing it with me frankly. Like we're two scientists trying to work out why, or how exactly, I make them feel a certain way: Virile, kingly, light-as-air, with a completely new sense of ease, pride and confidence.

They're right that there is something about me, and I think I know what it is.

I love this. When I serve you, I am truly, deeply satisfied. It's real.

When we first meet, you won't fully understand. You'll see a beautiful caramel-skinned young woman--vivacious, playful and silly, yet intelligent and charismatic. You'll notice a touch of sass with a great ass to match.

But only later, when you sense how satisfied we both are, will you fully understand how different I am. You'll feel like there's nothing else that matters in the world outside of us in our languid tranquility. And in a primal sense, that's true. It's a pure instinctual fact, unadulterated by, well, adulthood in this complicated world of man.