Large hand wrapped around my neck.
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
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.
Oh! I prayed for this. Yes, pursue me, chase me and . . .
Play! With me.
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