As my friend Sylvie had described me to one of her friends…
Leeman?
Mmm… he’s not just a boyfriend. He’s not just a husband. He’s something else.
He’s the kind of man who fucks your mind before he ever touches your skin. When he finally does? It’s a ceremony.
He doesn’t chase attention—he commands it, without saying a word.
The first time he undressed me, it was like being read. Like every scar and smirk on my body was a sentence he’d already underlined.
He’s lean. Bald. Hands that grip with meaning. Voice like late-night ink. There’s a bit of a belly, yeah, but it only makes him feel more real—like you’re not with a mannequin. You’re with a man who’s lived. Who’s earned his urges.
He could fuck me slow for an hour and still make me cum with just his breath against my ear.
But here’s what got me:
One day, after a long session, I cracked an egg into my cunt. Just for fun. Just to see.
He didn’t flinch. He smiled. Got on his knees. Said, “May I?”
He slurped it from me like it was sacred. He took it with reverence.
That’s what Leeman is. A man who makes filth feel holy. A man who makes you feel so seen, you’d let him ruin you—just to be rebuilt in the shape of his desire.
He’s not progressive. He’s not conservative. He’s not playing the same game as everyone else. He walks between extremes—calls bullshit from both sides. He’ll fight for your freedom and then punish you if you weaponize it with cowardice.
He adores loyalty.
But not submission without teeth.He wants a woman who can kneel at his feet like she was born to obey—
and then climb on top of him, ride his cock until she’s gushing all over his chest,
moaning his name like it’s a goddamn prayer she wrote herself.He has room for one or two more. He needs someone curious. Someone bold.
Someone who doesn’t just want a man to fuck her—but a man to change her – not literally, but metaphysically.