Rated X
.Looking over my shoulder I can see through blurry eyes that pressed against me is not a toy or your hand but a well-worn second-hand cowboy boot. Your eyes are closed in the intimate intensity of the moment. A slow smile spreads across my face as yet another puzzle piece of you falls into place. I snap back at the searing pain tingling my ass cheek while you reach back for another smack. I am prepared this time and the sensation makes me swell dripping with envy. Why can't I find a man like you who is not so afraid of ... me?
It is then I realize why you are so discreet, so careful with your words, so secretive even though you probe and bruise me all you like. You are not the play boy I thought you were. You are not that fictious antagonist from all those romantic comedies I tell myself never to watch. Mingling in the posh club downtown where no one is aware of your mother-complex or your self-loathing or how you punish your body into perfection. I see those things. You are more translucent to me than any one else you have ever met. I catch the tone of your voice, the strain in your moan, the hesitance in your thrust. It's subtle but I calculate. You sense this. You fear this. You fear me. You fear how I can change their image of you. You threaten me into silence as you pleasure me. Desperation.
Climaxing again and again collapsing on top of you into a trembling, spent heap I am forced to reckon with you. Then with a tenderness I know you don't possess you kiss my forehead. In any other room in any other house we could be an average couple exhausted from love making but we are not them. We will never be them. We don't do that sort of thing. Not together and not with any other. We talk of it. You and your many wives theory; it takes a village to raise a child. Me and my open marriage needs. You admit to being too jealous. I don't believe you have enough energy to keep up despite your bravado and athletic build.
We are at an impasse when the sunlight filters in. Snoring quietly I sneak out half clothed back to my girlfriend's bed. It's strangely warm.
It is then I realize why you are so discreet, so careful with your words, so secretive even though you probe and bruise me all you like. You are not the play boy I thought you were. You are not that fictious antagonist from all those romantic comedies I tell myself never to watch. Mingling in the posh club downtown where no one is aware of your mother-complex or your self-loathing or how you punish your body into perfection. I see those things. You are more translucent to me than any one else you have ever met. I catch the tone of your voice, the strain in your moan, the hesitance in your thrust. It's subtle but I calculate. You sense this. You fear this. You fear me. You fear how I can change their image of you. You threaten me into silence as you pleasure me. Desperation.
Climaxing again and again collapsing on top of you into a trembling, spent heap I am forced to reckon with you. Then with a tenderness I know you don't possess you kiss my forehead. In any other room in any other house we could be an average couple exhausted from love making but we are not them. We will never be them. We don't do that sort of thing. Not together and not with any other. We talk of it. You and your many wives theory; it takes a village to raise a child. Me and my open marriage needs. You admit to being too jealous. I don't believe you have enough energy to keep up despite your bravado and athletic build.
We are at an impasse when the sunlight filters in. Snoring quietly I sneak out half clothed back to my girlfriend's bed. It's strangely warm.