She sits with her legs out, bent slightly at the knees, back hunched over.  Her feet point away from me, so she has to turn to look at my face.  Most of the time though she stares at her toes.  Sometimes, a little smirk crosses over her lips, but she isn’t laughing.  She’s thinking, and her little snorts are warning shots whistling past my ear.

Then she turns and looks into me; her eyes flicking to meet mine.  I look for my own reflection and see a black void, darker than her pupils, like an oily cataract blinding her from light.  She’s trying to read my mind, but the only thing she can see is an iron door, triple locked and bolted.

I break the gaze and stare at her toes.  Then I make my way to her calves, her thighs, the hem of her skirt almost covering the knees but barely concealing the buttocks.  I begin to stir under my belt, and I want to ask her if she would like to fuck – snarling and hissing in my lap on the couch, pounding down on me so hard my balls are tender for days.  This is absolutely the wrong thing to do, the total opposite of what is right and decent, which is precisely why my brain can think of nothing else.

I’m too weak to love properly, too self obsessed.  I know I’m going to break her heart.  I just don’t know how I can do it gently.