I guess, you could say she loved it because she remembered it so well; the way his hands played along her back and buttocks; grasped the backs of her knees:
Those small hollows, tingling like two cups of hot tea.
As his cock reached into the hilt of her, he'd work his way to her spine. (The exploratory hands of her lover, was a blessed assurance.)
Then, with a resounding smack, his palm came down upon her ass; the fullness of each cheek, receiving its due.
She loved him, all the more, at moments like this:
His possession, his love, giving space to the entire room; and, the bed only a cavern's twinkling, in candlelight.
(How did it ever happen, their meeting like this?)
Remembering the goodness of a spanking...remembering what makes it so special, so lasting, so loving. The hilt of her is singing...into crimson.
The words poured out of her, late in the game.. On the television: three balls, a strike, and, two runs, dominated the room. There wasn't any reason for her disappointment. It was just a baseball game, like so many others and his beer was in the fridge and in his hand and her eyes said it all, as the opposing team and crowd cheered.
There was no poetry, only prose. Here, we can get lost, she thought, as she opened the fridge and popped another can and the heat of the kitchen became all-too stifling, all-to-heavy; it was the heaviness of her clothes, the heaviness of her belted skirt, weighing her down and before you knew it, the heat of the day, boiling in the afternoon, settled itself like a tropical depression. She was entering that heated zone, sipping a beer, same as her hubby on the couch and his feet were propped on the coffee table and yes, the moment could've been lost; could've taken a dark turn, if she'd decided to take her beer outside. Instead, she found herself girded and protected by a resolve: Her clothes, slowly fell to the floor. The Kitchen, instead of being a harbor of home, was transformed into a place of overwhelming disconnect [in a good way.] Naked, now, half-way into the 7th Inning Stretch, she put down her empty can, and went back into the living room.
Hubby looked up, and then undid his belt, pulling his jeans down, scrunching his butt on the couch. She, with the heat of the house, their abode, of shifting currents, entered victorious.
Straddling now, with his cock inside her,
the game, faded into baseball legend.
They no longer could hear the first run of the 8th Inning and if the moment were truly their own, you couldn't fathom the scores.
Late in the game, they found themselves, reaching beyond the World Series....maybe, not poetry in motion; although, the imagination for things had brought a reward.
I guess, you could say she loved it because she remembered it so well; the way his hands played along her back and buttocks; grasped the backs of her knees:
