Treacle Fucking His housemates were out, so they’d fucked on the floor. The television had

Treacle Fucking His housemates were out, so they’d fucked on the floor. The television had droned on about the Sudan, or the latest sporting victory by the teams they really didn’t give a fuck about, but at least it provided the kind of apocalyptic rhythm to their thrusting that spurred them to climax that moment faster. His hand around her throat as she got close, pushing down on that hard cylinder of her windpipe until she tried to gasp. Tried. Watching it was poetry, and the way she clawed at air once he relented, before starting all over again just drove her harder and harder, until she exploded all over him. Laziness hung in the air when they were done, coating them in a sheen along with the sweat, along with the panting, gasping breaths that they shared between kisses. It made the room sticky, and they stuck together, a fondling heap on the sofa. The tv continued, oblivious. They, oblivious to the tv, continued their haphazard lovemaking throughout the afternoon. It was summer afternoon fucking. It was meadow fucking. It was hot, sticky, treacle fucking. It was the only way they wanted to communicate for hours at a time. They’d watch tv. They’d talk. They’d go shopping together. They’d cook, they’d share meals. He’d crack open the good wine. But right now, all they wanted to do was fuck, and they were afforded enough privacy to make that singular dream come true. -- source link
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