Yes, been listening to that old George Jones, here in the late afternoon, early evening now, later, as I look up and am glad to find you here, your fingers wandering up between my open legs as I lean back and explore the day, the tired day, the end of day that I wanted a nap, or, more than that, you, your cock, much more than I let myself ponder even in late summer, even when I am alone in that dreary office and looking at my horoscope, or twitter links, or whatever the Economist thinks that Angela is going to do about the Euro, or some other waste of time because I cannot take another serious thought, want laughter, oh yes, do that, just like that, want you.
Yes, take a sip, my dear, take a sip, it is the 2010 Gigondas, St. Cosmé, 95 by the Wine Spectator, and I am about to drink this glass myself, but drink, drink, lean into me, and love this, love this day and our mock sophistication. I still love this life, want you. Your cock is hard as you watch me. I know I feel so lazy today, my wants just there, not complicated now as I watch you remove your shirt, your taut arms, and finally I rouse enough to wrestle you down and ease my cunt around you, delicious you.
The fan whirs up above, my head now dizzy as I fall into this desire, this want, this hot, wet need, your sweat, your love, your grinding grunt as you turn me round and fuck me hard, the luxury of your finger winding locks of my hair, heat radiating, your scent stirring me all the more as you let yourself come, now, yes, me, yes, slick skin, hot sheets, drunk wine, hunger, the night beyond.