A short piece, originally published on fetlife.
He’s wearing the button down shirt you like, ironed flat and neat because you have a thing for that. Once upon a time, when you were a little girl, Barbie hurled Ken off the edge of the bed and your mother found you stringing them both up by the chewed up feet. Now you hurl him onto the bed, push him back aggressively.
Oh god, oh god. He’s taken your fetish to heart. Clean pressed black slacks are about to get really rumpled and you have him down to socks and boxers faster than peeling a banana. Fuck, you can stroke up an erection through his underwear. You can see the lines in his shoulders when he throws his arms up (hands up! you said to that indulgent 13 year old boy when you were 11, and you had a water pistol on a hot summer’s day). That was a boy, this is a man, with a man’s smell and muscles under the skin and much more potential than shy awkwardness and your first kiss at gunpoint, ten years ago.