I get such a peculiar feeling when I’m with her, looking into her eyes.  I’m talking about my girlfriend Sophie.  I know, that sounds sappy, but I don’t mean the romance novel warm and fuzzy feeling.  I’m talking about when I’m on top of her.  One minute, I’m a sweating heaving walrus; a pathetic, slightly overweight college dropout plowing into his under-age girlfriend. I start feeling so guilty that I can’t even keep an erection.  Then it happens.  We make eye contact.  

On this particular day, her eyes look ice grey in the dim overcast light.  They are communicating so much to me without need of a single word.  In that moment I’m transfixed and transformed.  I’m completely under her control, and she begins to conduct a symphony.  I play the epic hero, and she the ripe, supple virgin.  My Herculean body looms large as she runs her hands over my muscled chest, feeling the pounding of my lion’s heart pumping purple blood down my core, and into my penis, swelling it to monumental new dimensions.  We are sexual demons.  We are the envy of the gods.  

In a moment of folly, I think I’m in control.  Grabbing her hips, I flip her over, intending to take her from behind.  The first two thrusts threaten to invade her very womb.  But with her face buried in the pillow, I can’t see her eyes.  The spell fades quickly.  I slump back.  Her blossoming wet vulva in front of me is suddenly mildly intimidating.  I am the walrus again.  Collapsing on the bed next to her, gasping for air, I apologize.  I tell her I must be out of shape.  Her words are sympathetic, but her eyes are communicating again.  They’re telling me who calls the shots in this relationship.  They’re mocking me for thinking i have any power at all.  Sophie is  in control.  

The End

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