Large hand wrapped around my neck.
Firm.
Holding me down.
My eyes follow the veins snaking up the muscular forearm.
Along the flexed bicep.
Up past a sinewy boxer’s shoulder.
I lock onto wide irises, blue, boring into mine.
And I moan.
My body—finally!—used, not abused, according to its
(divine)
design.
Pinned—deliciously, into willing surrender.
Succumbed, to the tireless thrust of my lover’s hips.
Relaxed, into deep connection.
Receiving him, with trusting abandon.
I’m game. I am game.
I am his game.
Prey?
Oh! I prayed for this. Yes, pursue me, chase me and . . .
consume me.
Play! With me.
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