Only on account that his look said “Yes, Go for it,” did she quickly reach for his top button. He had already loosened his tie. Left it around his neck. She ignored it at first. At first she pounced on that top button like a coyote moves onto a chicken.
Not that I would know. I’ve never seen a coyote in action.
The shirt, his shirt, was new. So new the creases were still crispy from the manufacturer’s folds. It was bright white. The button holes did not give up easily, just as the chicken most likely would not go down without a fight. Chickens fight more savagely than roosters.
She fumbled. With the button, she fumbled, and cussed under her breath. She did not have the time to mess with this. She loosened the tie even more, and slipped it off his head. Certain fights need to be won easily before moving on to the real battle. Call it food for fought.
Think about it. It does make sense, once the battle is over, it has been fought.
She messed with the button, it finally submitted to her prying fingers. She did not have time to mess with these one at a time. She looked at him, wide eyed, pleading. He responded with a nod. She took the nod as an invitation to slip her fingers between two buttons. Halfway down his shirt, she clasped each side. This gift needed to be unraveled and opened on the spot. Time was not wasted on the card, nor was it wasted on admiring the beautifully prepared wrapping. The gift was, after all, inside.
She pulled the shirt open. She pulled until the last button dropped. As each button popped off, she could hear them dropping, and bouncing off the hard ceramic tiles. Each “ting” calling her back to reality. Each “ting” awakening her to her loss of control.
She suddenly found herself teetering on the fence.She balanced between reckless abandon on one side, while on the other was the discreet reminder that it wasn’t too late to stop. Not too late to back-up, and walk away. She hadn’t crossed the line. Yet. She hadn’t gone too far, to a point of no return. Yet.
She did not waste time in the decision making process. She knew which way she needed to go. She abandoned herself, and gave in to her desire. Death would most likely have been the result, had she walked away.
Does a famished coyote turn its back on the willing chicken?
She was, after all, a hungry woman.
Oh my. He’s been gone for three weeks. I so miss foreplay, and tomorrow marks our 10 yr anniversary. Now, I ask you, would this be considered smut, or is it a prelude to it?
This week’s prompts are carefully chosen by yours truly: Falling and Uncertainty. I did not mention either of the words, but one could not argue the content was all about them. Wasn’t it?