I light a cigarette on the contemplative balcony.

All I wanted today was to have a little one with you, just like that last one here at home, right here.

It was just a ride from our chance encounter and some unplanned beers on the way. But with the house empty, that water becomes a reference for us, music on the guitar and glances that heat up.

I see the lights of the flat city, a drink I don’t know whose I found in the fridge, you come up behind me, smelling the back of my neck, my neck, my chest. Your hands roam masterfully, even inside my pants.

The scent of my desire for you fills the air, and I’m dying for you to feel the way you make me feel.

You bend down, unzip, slide my pants down to the middle of my thighs, and pull my panties aside. You slowly run your tongue over your lips, back and forth, until you reach my shaft. I dig my nails into your back, soaking your stubble.

I rub myself against your face so you know who’s in charge. I hold you by the hair, look you in the eyes. In this game, I make the rules. I sit on you slowly, wanting to show you every inch of me, swallowing you little by little.

I smile mischievously, watching you writhe beneath me, inside me, squeezing my hips tightly. I know the bruises on your fingers will last for days, I laugh again at your desperation and intensify.

You scratch my thighs, moaning in that delicious timbre, grunting, roaring.

Everything around me stopped, as if we were the only ones in the world. Noises from the effusion of so many streets. Colors from the frenetic coming and going. Indecipherable fused scents. The breeze of calm.

I can only think about the injustice of passions. Some delicious cocks shouldn’t be trapped in such fascinating minds.

I accept my fate. I put out my cigarette and return to the empty room.