Lust Around the Camp Fire
Three come together. One is hard, ready to please top or bottom. The second, submissively, soft, and sweet. The third, Latin, dark, a sultry obsession. Heat binds dark and sweet, entwined them into melting, caloric pleasure. Crumbling, the hard pushes melding sultry into sticky. Orgasmic, forbidden, oozing, menage a s'mores.
How could he have been happier? Riches beyond counting. Power unchallengeable. Beauty incomparable. Men admired him; women beckoned him. He had no enemies, no competitors, and no rivals to any of his consummate qualities. He was perfect. But he was haunted by the fact that he could have been happier.
Heavy drops start pelting from the sky, turning dust into mud, trickling into the cracks in the earth. Lightning crackles, thunder roars. The downpour is deafening on the corrugated tin roof. The gutters start to spill over, it's leaking in the kitchen. The farmer walks outside and smiles.
A menthol haze reached heavenward, separating them.
"We never talk about us," she exhales, glaring. Resting against the hotel headboard, her sweat-slicked legs stretch for miles across tangled sheets.
"You're gonna get a smoking fee," he says, unsated, unsettled.
Smirking, she shrugs, nodding. "Talking isn't what we do," she admits.