Michelle and Morgan sit on the bed cross-legged, facing one another, naked. The light is on, its luster muted, filtered through Michelle's discarded nightgown. Hands and mouths at rest, their eyes appraise...
cheeks:
his fine as porcelain
hers as pocked as a nectarine;
chests:
his suntanned, muscular
hers like side-by-side rotundas;
loins:
his limp in its latex sheathe
hers slick in its bald audacity;
limbs:
his blond and bristly
hers endowed with a lithesome grace. 
Together they share whims and mutual worries.

"Morgan, are you...?"

"Healthy?" He anticipates her question. (Michael's status notwithstanding, Morgan feels robust.) His "Yes," both reassures and asks her the same.

"I am; I promise."

Michelle's assertion bolsters Morgan's ardor, with his confidence, and yet, as she attempts to take possession of his condom, he balks.

"I'd rather wear it."

She removes it, nonetheless, unpeeling his erection root to apex. She bows. He squirms... allowing her, despite himself, to lick and chew his hard-on... to devour it... take it deep enough to feel her throat contract, the normal gagging reflex stifled somehow. In and out she crams him, while Morgan rests his forearms on her back and tilts his head.

She stops and straightens up. 

"Morgan, let's not fuck tonight." She looks at him intently. "What I mean to say is, let's make love."

 

 

Unperceived...

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