A Quiet Revolution

In the bed’s wasteland, I am set upon a mission.

Once he’s shed his suit and his tie lies coiled like a dormant serpent on the floor, I engage him in the luxurious expenditure of his energies and, in doing so, deny the great machine its lifeblood.

He is unaware of my agenda. Caught up in the violence of his body’s hunger, his hands have slipped the wheel of industry and settled on my thighs, my hips, my breasts. I’ve trapped his fingers in the tangled web of my long dark hair.

After his eyes have regained their focus. After I’ve supped on the warm excess that fountained from his cock to land on his thigh, he gazes at me in hazy lassitude.

“I bet I can make you come again,” I say.

He smiles. “You think?”

“I do,” I say, ” Especially if I do this…”

The tip of my tongue chases sensation up the underside of his semi-erect shaft. My lips purse and suck-kiss the vulnerable spot that nestles beneath the head. Then, in an act of understated warfare, I cover him with my mouth and trap him in the vacuum of my intentions.

Every unit of energy I take from him denies the machine. Every thrust, every breathy gasp, every tense shuddering is an act of sabotage.  It’s a very quiet, very underhanded sort of revolution.