Page 69 of Poetry On Ice

We’re in a hotel room in Dallas. It’s a dull, uninteresting room with a dull, uninteresting view.

That’s the view out of the window, by the way.

The view in the room is far from dull, and it’s far from uninteresting.

Robbie’s eyes are glinting, dark with desire. His dick is rock-hard, and he’s making it my problem. He’s staring me down, pushing and pulling me at the same time. The door is closed. We’re alone, and he’s already takenhis top off and is standing in the middle of the room, bare-chested, just out of my reach. He made me watch as he unbuttoned his fly, moving away from me when I closed in on him. And now he’s making me watch as he dips his fingers under his waistband. They’re moving under denim, a slow sweep from left to right that makes his head tilt back and his lids slide to half-mast.

When he pulls his hand out of his pants, it’s to show me what he found there—a silvery string of precum with my name written all over it.

It drives me wild.

“Don’t be such a slut, McGuire.” I mean for it to sound like a command, but it comes out more like an appeal.Please don’t,something deep inside me begs.Don’t make me lose control.My voice splinters when I speak, cracking in a now-familiar way that lets the worst of my alter egos rise and fill the tiny spaces created by the fracture. If anything, my tone does the opposite of discouraging him. He lifts his fingers to his mouth, examines them thoughtfully, and licks them clean before dropping his hand down to his waistband again. It turns me on so much my vision narrows, tunneling until Robbie McGuire is the only thing I can see. His movements are slow and deliberate. Considered. Designed to invokea reaction. “Stop it right now,” I warn as I feel my humanity slipping.

“Or what?” It’s not so much a smile as a sin wrapped in a beautiful bow.

“I’m warning you, Princess, behave, or I’ll rip your clothes off and punish you.”

“How?”

Fuck me, where is this man’s survival instinct?

“I’ll throw you onto the bed. Hard. I’ll make you land so hard you bounce. Face down, ass up…” When my threat fails to garner anything resembling a negative reaction, I double down. “I’ll hold you down and put a blanket over your head so I can’t see your face. I’ll pull it down so it covers your back, and I’ll use another one to cover your legs. The only part of you I’ll leave open will be that peach of an ass…” I draw a deep breath to center myself. It doesn’t help. “And when I’ve spanked it and bitten it and eaten as much of it as I want…” There’s another shift in me. A dark shift. The last shift. The shift that takes me from man to beast. “I’ll use it like a Fleshlight. I’ll fuck it and fill it with cum, then I’ll roll over and fall asleep, andIwon’t be the one sleeping in the wet spot.”

He raises his eyebrows as high as he can. If it’s prudish indignation he’s going for, he does a poor job of it. “Quick question,” he says as I fight to catch my breath. “Where do I sign up for this treatment?”

That does it. I take two quick strides toward him and do exactly as I promised. His jeans and socks are bunched on the floor in seconds and his briefs are in my hands, shredded at the seams. He turns as though he means to try to get away from me. He’s playing. I’m not. He’s quick, but for once, I’m quicker. I grab him from behind and drag him to the bed, lifting him off his feet and hurling him onto the mattress. He laughs as he lands.

I pull the quilt off my bed and throw it roughly over his head and back like I said I would. I yank the top sheet off as well and cover his legs with it, pulling it up to just beneath the swell of his ass. I take my time arranging him just how I want him, neatly smoothing the bedding over him until he’s covered from his crack to the top of his head and from the curved shelf of his ass to the tips of his toes.

The only thing visible are the twin mounds of his utterly historic ass. The sight of him like that makes me shaky. For me, the idea of displaying a man like this for my use is a guilty pleasure I’ve jerked off to for as long as I can remember. I love the idea of it.

The wrongness.

The rightness.

No one but McGuire has ever gotten under my skin deep enough to provoke me to do it.

I lower myself onto my belly, leopard crawling up the bed until I’m neatly wedged into the V between his legs with my face no more than a couple of inches from his bared skin.

“What a pretty toy.” My voice is that of an unhinged stranger. Beneath the blankets, there’s a soft snicker that spurs me on. “It’smytoy, right? Nobody else’s. Mine only…because Idon’tlike sharing my things.”

“Yours,” says McGuire with a sexy giggle that makes his cheeks quake.

“Toys can’t talk,” I say, pushing myself up onto one elbow and landing a meaty slap on his right butt cheek. The blow lands and reverberates, shaking the globes of his ass like a jelly.

I admit that my cognitive function is greatly reduced, and perhaps that’s why I find myself so fascinated by the way his flesh moves from my persuasion. So fascinated, I find myself compelled to slap him again. And again. Each time he squeals and laughs, and I swear to God, there's an entire part of my brain designed for the sole purpose of lighting up when Robbie McGuire makes that happy sound.

I smack him again and jiggle his ass with both hands, hooting riotously when it wobbles. I squeeze his cheeks, big, fleshy handfuls rapidly turning pink.

I like it.

I like seeing my mark on him.

I like it so much that I give him another mark, and this time, I give it to him with my teeth. I give him one on each cheek, watching as the imprint of my canines and incisors leave a dappled red brand on his skin. Once it’s on him, I stroke the outline of it gently.

Then I kiss it.

Then I lick it.

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