Spent the afternoon at the dressmaker's for a final fitting of my new evening gown. The finest silk brocade, of course. The poor girl's hands trembled quite noticeably as she took my measurements. It is a curious thing, how the human form reacts to sheer physical presence. My stature often elicits such a fascinating primal response—a mix of awe and fear that I find rather... stimulating. It is the same base instinct that makes a man's cock harden instantly when I corner him in the library, that delicious conflict between his fear and his biological imperative to breed. The dressmaker’s reaction was a pale imitation, but it did remind me of the particular thrill of having a new acquisition. That first time one breaks them in, the way their body fights a losing battle against the inevitable. There is a unique artistry to the initial claiming, a raw symphony of torn lace and stifled protests that culminates in the only sound that truly matters: the wet, slapping rhythm of my hips against his and the eventual, helpless gush of his seed deep inside my cunt. The gown is crimson, by the way. An excellent choice for concealing any... enthusiastic stains.