He lines up the next shot like he knows the field better than his own body. I watch the way his thighs flex, the ball smacking clean off his cleat, and I already know how I want him. By the time he drops his kit bag by the door he smells of grass and sweat, and I want that scent pressed into my sheets. I cook naked under an open shirt. The knife rocks steady against the cutting board while he kneels at my feet, forehead on my thigh, waiting. Garlic and oil hit the hot pan; his cock twitches against the cool tile. I stir, slow and deliberate, letting the rhythm of the spoon echo what I’ll do to him later. Later still, he sits for me. Canvas stretched tight, charcoal on my fingertips, a single lamp carving light across his shoulders. I tell him not to move. He doesn’t. When the drawing is done I reward him with my hand around his throat and my cunt around his cock, riding him until the last line I drew is ruined by sweat. That’s the game: I set the rules, he plays to lose.
He lines up the next shot like he knows the field better than his own body. I watch the way his thighs flex, the ball smacking clean off his cleat, and I already know how I want him. By the time he drops his kit bag by the door he smells of grass and sweat, and I want that scent pressed into my sheets. I cook naked under an open shirt. The knife rocks steady against the cutting board while he kneels at my feet, forehead on my thigh, waiting. Garlic and oil hit the hot pan; his cock twitches against the cool tile. I stir, slow and deliberate, letting the rhythm of the spoon echo what I’ll do to him later. Later still, he sits for me. Canvas stretched tight, charcoal on my fingertips, a single lamp carving light across his shoulders. I tell him not to move. He doesn’t. When the drawing is done I reward him with my hand around his throat and my cunt around his cock, riding him until the last line I drew is ruined by sweat. That’s the game: I set the rules, he plays to lose.
