Game Angel has raised herself to a four-point stance, after I'd pulled her all the way down me, me all up her, then ground her bristly motte round my arched muscletensed holdingbreath belly:
Now only my tip touches her twatlips.
She puts her weight forward on her fingertips: squats: begins to reciprocate.
She knows me so well. She's gauged the distance: Her downstroke is soundless—Nimbly, she stops her butt short from a thwack on my thighs: soundless except for faint squelching, her sighs.
The one place our flesh touches: my juiced shiny piston, stainless: up down, in out, in out; disappearing, appearing.
I see you.
Oh so cute. Heh.
No point. Just an observation. A reflection upon the proceedings.
Tweaked. I may return to it.
All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."