Page 211 of Yearn
It was fascinating how the male body betrayed the mind’s illusions of control when wet pussy was involved.
It was dopamine.
It was testosterone.
It was Teyonah.
The painting clicked, unlocking with that smooth hydraulic sound.
My pupils dilated as the light shifted—amber spilling into gold.
I hadn’t even touched her yet, and my body was already in a full hormonal storm.
Increased cardiac output.
Rapid redistribution of blood flow.
Heightened sensitivity in every nerve ending.
My mind whispered:calm down.
My biology laughed in my face.
This was what she did to me—my wife, my undoing.
By the time the door swung open, my blood pressure had already peaked, my heart rate steady at one hundred and five.
If I’d been hooked to a monitor, I would’ve watched the readout climb and the number would have told the same story.
A single diagnosis.
Obsession.
With the door open, the air hit me first.
Warm.
Spiced.
Heavy with her scent.
I stepped further inside.
This hidden space had cost more than my first year of medical school.
Climate-controlled.
Soundproofed with technology used in recording studios.
The lighting system was programmable—sixteen million color combinations controlled by an app on my phone.
There were cameras everywhere so we could watch the footage later and fuck some more.
The furniture wasn't from a catalog. It was custom-designed by a discreet German company that catered to people who understood that pleasure was an art form worth investing in.
The sex swing? Aerospace-grade titanium. Weight capacity: five hundred pounds. Upholstered in butter-soft leather that cost three hundred dollars per square foot.
Every surface was sanitized with hospital-grade UV systems after each use.
