Sunday Scribblings - Game
The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is “game.”
The Game
Counting to 5,000 is a little excessive, he thinks.
He’s blindfolded with one of her bras, a black number that makes her breasts rise and shine. He also has one hand tied behind his back – his left hand, since he told her once that he masterbated with the right – and he sits naked in a comfy chair, counting to 5,000.
(Using his right fist to its full advantage.)
Of course, she spends the first 1,000 counts teasing with her nipples on his warm flesh, teasing him so much that when his erection begins to twitch, she moves there and teases him some more with a strand of pearls, rolling them around the base of his member and then wrapping the whole strand on his pole and walks away without so much as a whisper.
“Four thousand nine-hundred and ninety eight, 4,999, 5,000, ready or not here I come,” he shouts as he releases himself from the grip of his fist and pushes the bra cups up onto his forehead.
She’s not on the couch, in front of a crackling fire.
She’s not waiting in a warm bath in the ancient claw-foot tub she’d insisted on (and remains grateful she did).
She’s not on their bed, which is caressed in satin sheets and sprinkled with rose petals.
There’s a glow coming from the spare bedroom, a flickering of candles. He pushes the door open with a noisy flourish and is amazed at the mass of tiny flames that illuminate the room.
She lays naked on rumpled sheets, one arm tossed across her eyes. She works her other hand in the dark patch of hair between her legs. The candlelight catches the slick sheen of sweat that covers her body.
On her taut belly is a black-and-white picture.
An ultrasound. He stares and slowly, a realization crosses his crinkled brow. There, in the fuzzy triangle, is the unmistakable Sea Monkey squiggle of new life.
His erection begins to waver, deflate.
She peeks from beneath the crook of her arm and quickly, with damp fingers, grabs him a little rough by the manhood and pulls him toward her.
“Hold on there, cowboy,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “Nothing changes.”
He clears his throat to speak and she cuts him off, using her fingers to excite him in a way that drives him wild.
“OK,” she says, “nothing changes for the next several months.”
The Game
Counting to 5,000 is a little excessive, he thinks.
He’s blindfolded with one of her bras, a black number that makes her breasts rise and shine. He also has one hand tied behind his back – his left hand, since he told her once that he masterbated with the right – and he sits naked in a comfy chair, counting to 5,000.
(Using his right fist to its full advantage.)
Of course, she spends the first 1,000 counts teasing with her nipples on his warm flesh, teasing him so much that when his erection begins to twitch, she moves there and teases him some more with a strand of pearls, rolling them around the base of his member and then wrapping the whole strand on his pole and walks away without so much as a whisper.
“Four thousand nine-hundred and ninety eight, 4,999, 5,000, ready or not here I come,” he shouts as he releases himself from the grip of his fist and pushes the bra cups up onto his forehead.
She’s not on the couch, in front of a crackling fire.
She’s not waiting in a warm bath in the ancient claw-foot tub she’d insisted on (and remains grateful she did).
She’s not on their bed, which is caressed in satin sheets and sprinkled with rose petals.
There’s a glow coming from the spare bedroom, a flickering of candles. He pushes the door open with a noisy flourish and is amazed at the mass of tiny flames that illuminate the room.
She lays naked on rumpled sheets, one arm tossed across her eyes. She works her other hand in the dark patch of hair between her legs. The candlelight catches the slick sheen of sweat that covers her body.
On her taut belly is a black-and-white picture.
An ultrasound. He stares and slowly, a realization crosses his crinkled brow. There, in the fuzzy triangle, is the unmistakable Sea Monkey squiggle of new life.
His erection begins to waver, deflate.
She peeks from beneath the crook of her arm and quickly, with damp fingers, grabs him a little rough by the manhood and pulls him toward her.
“Hold on there, cowboy,” she says in a hoarse whisper. “Nothing changes.”
He clears his throat to speak and she cuts him off, using her fingers to excite him in a way that drives him wild.
“OK,” she says, “nothing changes for the next several months.”
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