I am sitting on the balcony of my Honolulu hotel suite and I can see so many large, high-rise hotels in my field of view. The first thing that comes to mind is the fact that there is a good possibility that there are people in each of these building fucking each other’s brains out.
Just going at it.
Tons of rampant fucking. Hot, sweaty, hair-pulling, furious sex with gritted teeth and flushed faces. I wish I was one of them.
I am playing a game with you. It’s the same game that you are playing with me. I say this to ensure you are aware.
I don’t know what your endgame is, however. That being said, I don’t think it matters that much to me. I’m flexible and I have my own house in order just how I like it and need it. And whatever endgame you are playing towards cannot change that.
But let’s forget the endgame. The endgame is boring and menial and exhausting. It’s not the kind of living that we are moving our chess pieces to win. The game is afoot but it is not this game.
This. This is the real game.
This is what you want; it’s what I want. It’s your soft lips tenderly accepting a kiss from my lips. It’s my fingertips finding their way down the front of your panties. It’s our hot breath commingling during the sweet agony of our union. It’s the smacking of our bodies against each other, in sweaty ecstasy.
It’s your hair wrapped up in the grip of my fist with you on your knees while I bury myself into you from behind over and over.
As they say, the game’s afoot. And I am engaged to claim my prize.
From Behind.
On Labor Day, it’s ok to let someone else do some of the work:
I need you like this. Always.
Especially when she is riding. It’s a thing of beauty.
