I stood over the water, watching a regal goose stalk the dead arms of branches on top of bracken. I followed the waves with my eyes which lapped up to the shore in soft surface breaths, though with my desire for action mounting, this was anything but calming. I sat on the bench reading and waiting, my impatience making barely noticeable the sound of the water’s exhalations.

Finally I was allowed upstairs, but the man was giving too many directions to my desire. First this, then that–mechanics. When what I wanted was to debauch. He held my wrists back and told my fingers not to penetrate. I couldn’t kiss him. My lips couldn’t touch him anywhere on his body, nor his mine. It was a completely sterile and useless affair–like the bare white walls of his room (decorated with little plants here and there — iridescent orchids on the windowsill), it was reminiscent of a monk’s room. Eventually my member couldn’t penetrate. My lips never touched his body.

I should have known what to expect based on his profile and his picture, because a high position in life and eyes as big as blue jewels always belie madness. We called it then, and he confessed that he was using me to get himself loose for someone later on. I was somewhat taken aback, but what I really minded was the limitations set on our experiences. Because he didn’t want to experience me per say. As well as the myriad steps it had taken to even get to bed–shower, lubricant, slow entrances–then the series of interruptions, the man stopping to check my cleanliness and the cleanliness of his sheets–no variation, just penetration.

I capitulated to each demand, which carried me further away from carnal depravity. When it was the only thing I wanted. To touch my own depravity in someone else.

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