Some things are easy.

Like you after two glasses of Prosecco. All ditzy and sparkling as you slip out of your too-high heels. Walking barefoot across the kitchen tiles searching for a snack or a nightcap. Hips wiggling as you reach for the highest shelf. Dress riding up, showing the torn line along the very top of your tights. Fingers wrapping around the stem of a glass as you giggle to yourself, “Alexa, play ‘Venus in Furs’ on Spotify.” Electric viola shivering your spine as you snatch the open bottle of orange wine.

Some things are hard.

Like my belt buckle against your lower back as I wrap one arm around your waist. Or just below that–the demanding bulge of my burnt copper corduroys pressing rather recklessly at the apex of that pretty beach. The lovely curves that come together, descend, and then diverge again. Open palm pressing against your stomach, just above your mound, holding you in place, pushing you back. Do you grind because of instinct? Out of sheer want or need? The long, slow roll of your ass from the base of the bulge all the way to the tip. A little pop at the end, as you tease the thick rim of my perfervid prick.

Some things are gentle.

Like my words as I whisper, soft but cocksure, that, well, “I’m going to fuck you, sweetheart. Right here. Right now.” Fingers digging at your black dress, pulling the hem above your white thong–a lovely contrast–then slipping beneath its waistband, pointing down towards Heaven. That first push. You exhale when my knuckle slips inside. Nice and quiet but with a little rise at the end. Your body lifting too, ass bouncing against my throbbing need. A clumsy unbuckling. Unzipping. Another waistband pushed down. Precum-soaked tip slapping against your exposed cheeks. I’ll slide it down. Make you feel the sticky warmth. Push it between your thighs. Feel your own heat.

Some things are rough.

Like when I slide my hand from the curve of your abdomen, around to the nape of your neck, and thread my fingers through your hair, pulling at the roots as I spin you to the kitchen island. Bend you over. Legs spread. Ass proud. Look back at me with glistening drool on your lips. Your silken lubricant running thick over my cock. That first, forceful push. Hand digging into the plush of your upper ass as I look down, watching the thick head slowly move your folds aside. Part for me. Open the gates. Lemme in. Whine, whine, whine–your tits pressed against the cold countertop, popping out of your dress, nipples hard enough to cut the granite–and bite your bottom lip, trying to hold it in, only for a little yelp to escape once all eight inches are in.

Some things are painful.

Like my open palm smacking against your ass. The sound of slapped flesh bouncing off the cabinets. Again and again, ass jiggling wildly, growing redder and redder with each connection. Cock twitching, throbbing, and jumping inside you each time my hand makes you fucking whimper.

“You like that?” Voice gruff and ragged between thrusts.

“Yes, Sir, please, give me more–”

There’s always more. More for you. More for me. Faster. Harder. Slower. Deeper.

But all things are pleasurable.

The pain fading, then blooming into a warm and woozy feeling. Eyes glazed as I barrel towards orgasm. Balls slapping incessantly against that slit–that belongs to me. Make it mine. Give me all of it. All of you. Your entire form and body and mind.

“You’re going to make me cum.”

“Inside. Inside, please.”

My hands digging dimples into your ass–a prelude to the flood of warmth that fills you. Pours inside you. Unsteady palpitations preceding each thick rope pushed further and further. A glass of wine filled to the brim. Sloshing and spilling over. Down the sides. Your ridges walls. Working back along the veins of my shaft. Still pushing it inside. Sliding in and out until it finally rests inside you. One last burst. My weight atop you. Breathing heavily. Hand running softly through your hair, rubbing the nape of your neck. Take this moment in. Catch your breath. Feel it inside you. Commit it to memory.

Finally, pushing out, a kiss between your shoulder blades. The true nightcap. “Good girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.”