I am not your wife. There will be no question of complaint or rejection, no need for negotiation. I am here by and for your pleasure.
Your hand on my waist, your body looming against mine from behind, is enough to let me know: your mouth planting a trail of quiet kisses, one step at a time, from the curve of my neck to my alabaster shoulder and back again is enough to make me comply.
Nip the thin skin at my nape between your front teeth. Grip my nipple between your thumb and forefinger and dig your nails in. Drive that pleading cry, music to your ears, from my throat.
Tell me what I am: your whore. Your slut. Your fucktoy.
When I arch my back, letting the soft globes of my haunches settle against your belly and part over your stiff cock, it’s time to take your fill. Time to root into me and bear me before you, lurching together as one beast through the darkness towards the magical and mutual convulsion of release: flesh gripping flesh piercing flesh.
What a pleasure to fuck a woman who understands the paradox: pleasure taken is pleasure given.
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