I have tried, in my way, to be free.
~ Leonard Cohen ~
(September 21, 1934 – November 7, 2016)
.
.
It’s closing time. But still we dance.
We will always dance.
He is over me, his weight carefully balanced to press me into the ground without crushing me, his hands holding my wrists above my head, his feet wrapped around my ankles pinning me in place.
For a moment.
Only for a moment.
Because in the next breath, my hips buck up against him, jostling his foothold enough for my sole to find purchase against the hardwood and swipe my other leg around the back of his knee. I roll my shoulders upward, bracing my weight on the left, and twist. In the next instant, it is he who is under me. And he will stay that way, struggling – valiantly but futilely – against my hold with muscle and will until his breath is coming in gasps.
And the harder he tries to get away…
…the harder he gets.
⇔
It is a game we play. One that is primal and antagonistic, that requires energy and endurance, that takes me from ‘Meh’ to rough-fuck-ready in a matter of minutes. Predator and prey, sometimes switching roles as we roll, we grapple and wrestle, strain and heave, laboring through a contest of strength and stamina until we are slick with sweat and heavy with need.
Hot silk and velvet steel.
The descriptor whispers through my mind as I gently control the trail of my fingers over his heated flesh, hands stroking his sensitive skin, eliciting stuttering gasps and throaty moans that tear from someplace deep inside his chest. It is an involuntary reaction on his part, a response he can’t control.
He has controlled very little thus far as a matter of fact, and it is precisely that lack of control – and the way he so willingly embraces it – that has him on edge. But edging him, for all its tortuous erotic delight, is not what I want right now.
No. Not right now.
Right now, what I want is for him to cum.