It’s like a movie.
Her laying there, a thick rug beneath her; a fireplace full of flames blossoming like flowers, burning. It’s warm. Her smile is warm, seductive.
I think wanting.
I want.
I stare.
And she stares right back.
Her look tells me to come closer.
I do.
It’s exactly like a movie.
It’s not a movie.
I stand almost over her. She slips out of her bra: her tits are perfect.
I want to sex them.
She pushes them together like feather pillows. Her eyes droop under the weight of desire, they say, I want you.
I am still dressed; my jeans get tighter.
My Thingy is a hard-on.
She notices the lump bulging from beneath my jeans and bites her lower lip, like she’s sucking on a tart candy.
She must work out. Her hands release the squeeze on her tits; they rub her flat, topographical stomach.
Her nipples stand at attention, they are the color of caramel brownies.
Still, that look.
Burning.
With the fireplace, the thickness of the rug enveloping, the room is a Christmas Eve room: warm. Inviting. Full of anticipatory excitement.
I think play.
I kneel down in front of her. Her toes wiggle against my jean-covered knees. I’m harder than before.
I part her legs with my hands, slowly; a tick. A quivering.
The fire hisses, then crackles, then POPS; and blossoms out.
Her legs lift into the air as if all the gravity in the room has been sucked away. They float up. They cross at the ankles smooth as melted ice cream, and she shimmies out of her panties.
They drop to the floor after free-hanging momentarily from a big toe. Like a fallen flag.
She’s open.
But not that open.
Her eyes roll to the top of her head. Her mouth looks like this: O. Her tongue ignores physics. It rolls oddly – wetly and warmly – around in her mouth.
I want to put It in there.
I crawl over her on all fours, press my weight onto her. The hand that isn’t holding me up grabs one of her boobs. It squeezes. Feels like warm watered down Jell-O.
It doesn’t feel anything like Jello-O.
More weight presses down on her, our bodies meet.
My jeaned-groin, my hips, mechanically and instant like starts to move back and forth against Her Pleasure.
I think Grind.
I can smell her.
I think I can smell her.
Looking down, I watch as I grate against her, incrementally harder.
Faster.
I look back at her face. Her mouth is open.
I want to spit in it, in her mouth, and watch her swallow it, or play with it; roll it around with that fat, slimy slug of a tongue.
I don’t spit in it.
Friction; a back and forth: a tingling pressure building in my toes, travels up my legs, passes my knees, my thighs, spreads out like Radiating; settles like pin-pricks ticklishly in my Tenders.
It is somehow both soft and hard. A wooden bat encased in a foam sleeve.
She groans, grabs my butt. Pulls me hard against her.
I can’t stop from moving faster and faster, don’t know how even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
A shiver explodes through out my body. A torrent-release; a broken dam.
I try to conceal my shivering, I’m racked with it. I’m sweating a little from my forehead. Can feel strands of hair pasted in place.
I can feel wetness.
My own.
It’s warm at first, but not for long. It drizzles down my inner thigh.
Makes me think of slime, and then of Nickelodeon.
It’s cold on my skin.
It’s uncomfortable, and immediately I want to change.
I close the magazine and put it back exactly where and how I found it.
I tell Nick, who is looking at another magazine – also stretched prone on the carpeted floor, his face creased and pinched with a strain he’s trying to hold back, a look of anticipating something that may or may not hurt – that I forgot about something and need to go home real quick, but will be back over tonight for a sleep over.
A sliver of a held back grunt slips out of his pursed lips.
I tell him as I am walking out of the room, that maybe we can play Super Nintendo tonight.
It’s one of his favorite things to do.