“Sex is about power.”
Unconvincingly she crosses her denier-clad legs, skirt ridden upwards to high thigh, glossed and manicured nail teasing at an imagined snag in the fine weave just above her knee. Her enfeebled, barely contained, lust lapping weakly against my skin.
“Is that so?”
One of us nibbles on a bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering unhelpfully, as a delicate flush of scarlet adds colour to blusher-decorated cheeks.
“Definitely,”
Draped over the arm of a couch, sodden knickers pooled about a single ankle, a dildo slashing mercilessly through thankful, juice-slick, cunt lips, we role-play power games.
Therapeutic compliance.
