I took my lover up into the shadows of the courthouse, into the shadowy nooks where the trees and shrubberies grow to block the wind and the rain and the light. An illusion of solitariness can be brought in those spaces, and it brings out the best of the worst in what she does.
Selves grappling. Hands down shirts, hands up skirts.
My hand at her throat, her teeth at my lips.
She circles me like a predator, and for some unknown reason even giggles at my jokes.
She makes me suspect that I’m about to be walked in on. My secrets feel like burdens, and my every other want gets turned up by my indulgences with her. She stokes my flames, encourages great flames and an intense inferno of a response.
She’s a gateway. She’s a trouble unto herself. She’s one of those most special things I’ve ever gotten my teeth around. She’s perfect, and she plays the role with the sort of post-modern self-awareness I require from a playmate.
She looks good naked, and she fights back just enough to keep it interesting.
Our shared interests, keep it all interesting.