no off switch

The walk back is a losing fight.

Sandra keeps drifting in front of you and slowing down on purpose, that perfect round ass pushing back into your crotch like she is trying to catch a boner that has already filed for the night off. You start talking to her the way you talk to a kid who will not stay on the sidewalk.

“No. Walk on. The boner store is closed for today.”

She does it again in the hallway.

“Nuh-uh. Get that ass moving, beautiful.”

You reach the bedroom, hit the light switch, turn around, and she is already nude. You have no idea when the last of it came off. One second there was fabric. The next there is Sandra on her knees on the mattress, grinning like denial is a love language.

“Ah, come on. Really? I was just shutting off the light.”

Being told no only riles her up more. That is on you.
You should have remembered. Every joke makes her hips roll slower. Every refusal makes the look in her eyes meaner and sweeter at the same time. By the time you reach the bed you are running on fumes and she is a problem with a heartbeat.

You sigh, long and tired, and give up the moral high ground.

You lie down between her legs instead.

She is already on her back, hypnotically swaying her hips like she can pull you in by rhythm alone. You hook your arms under her thighs, drag her to your mouth, and settle in to eat one or two climaxes out of her so the woman can actually sleep. Slow at first because you are exhausted, then surer when she gasps and her hand finds your hair. If this is the compromise, you can live with it. She gets to come. You get to keep your promise about the rest of it waiting until morning.

There was never a chance.

Morning sunlight cuts across the bed and finds you first. Sandra is a delightfully sleeping beauty draped along your side, one leg thrown over yours, face smashed softly into your shoulder. She looks peaceful. Content. Completely innocent, which is a lie the daylight does not bother to challenge.

Your eye rings are deep and dark.

She wrung four more creampies out of you after the “just let me eat you so you can sleep” compromise collapsed on contact.
You really need to learn how to say no to her, or you are going to be in genuine medical trouble. The thought arrives, looks at her, and immediately resigns.

Because then you look at the perfect, wrecked-content face of the semen demon cuddling into your ribs, mouth slightly open, utterly satisfied, and you remember exactly why you throw in the towel so easily. She asked. She wanted. She is yours.
The rest of the argument does not survive the sunlight on her hair.

You stay still so you do not wake her, already knowing you will lose again the second she opens her eyes.