Slaves and Sobriety

Happy All Saints' Day! I was raised a nice Catholic girl so I have to say that. Wait a minute. I lapsed and grew up to be an atheist. Nevermind.
I met a lovely young man on the streets of West Hollywood last night. He is an ex-Marine and quite a strapping stud. He humbly admitted to me that he'd love to be my personal slave. Oh, sometimes the planets align and good things fall into Mistress Sophie's lap! And he lives down the street from me!
I didn't say yes however. He needs to show me how bad he wants it. In my secret fantasy, he shows up at my door in his costume from last night (shirtless cowboy) with wonton soup, dark chocolate and Bombay Sapphire. Then, in between sips of my dirty martini, I treat cowboy bill to some ballbusting. I kick him, over and over, right between his legs. So hard that I get a bruise on my foot and cowboy has to rub it out. . . sorry, I spaced for a second. Just visualizing. . .
I would never drink and ballbust of course. It's just a fantasy, the drinking. The ballbusting is reality.