Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

Photo Credit: pxhere

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

I’ve always liked that saying. I chant it through my inner monologue like a mantra, reminding myself of this idea the moment I decide that it’s “go time.”

The moment I decide — I am going to fuck, your brains out.

The moment I say to myself, “poor little thing. She has no idea what kind of thoughts are traveling through my mind right now. Soon she will know. Soon. Soon, My Love. Soon…she will feel it.”

Breathing deeply, a transformation of sorts is becoming of me. Clarity of mind encompasses me; a tabula rasa envelops me, as the stresses of my day drift away and all I can think of is one thing and one thing only. My spine stiffens and my shoulders become more firm. My cock, somehow knows all this happening long before she does, awakening to semi-hard stature from the mere thought of what will happen next.

“Horseshoes,” I think.

“Hand grenades,” I ponder.

“Almost — it just doesn’t count,” I tell myself.

“I am going to make her cum a dozen times in rapid succession, and she has no fucking business thinking otherwise, once she sees the look in my eyes. There is no option for failure. There is no concept of ‘try’.”

“Horseshoes.”

“Hand grenades.”

This is when my left-hand reaches and grabs her by the belt buckle, to pull her inward and making her feel my dominion by force alone. My right hand, firmly placed around her neck.

A passionate kiss followed up by an adoring yet passionate slap across the face, followed up by an even more passionate kiss. I reach between her legs to feel the warmth I already knew was there, knowing her wetness started forming the moment she saw the look in my eyes. The moment, my hazel turned to black.

I tell myself, “I am throwing everything I am as a man at her now, and failing is not an option. I want her orgasms; I need them. Fucking bad!”

Repeating again, “Horseshoes. Hand grenades. Almost doesn’t count.”

A firm squeeze on her kitty and then I rip her clothes off, pushing her down onto the bed, tossing her onto her back and pushing her legs to the ceiling. Hands cupping the backs of her knees as my mouth makes her pussy my bitch. A very skilled tongue and upper lip work in unison to extract orgasms from her body with the precision of an Ivy League surgeon.

“Horseshoes,” I tell myself.

“She will cum, and she will cum a lot.”

Each orgasm that washes over her is decorated by moans and “Oh fuck, daddy” sounds, but as sweet as the sound is to my ears, I ignore that I heard them and keep on pressing for that “first orgasm”, even though that “first orgasm” came five orgasms ago.

“You are mine.”

“I own you.”

I will take those orgasms, thank you very much, and I will feed my fucking ego with them. Never satisfied and always needing more, I gaze up to see a woman completely lost in space and time, succumbing to my passion and power as a man. She is falling apart — because of me. The gorgeous, beautiful, amazing piece of perfect; I will always do right by her.

My perfect collared sub.

“Horseshoes. Hand grenades.”

“Almost is not even goddamn close to where I want to be.”

My hands work together as they are guided by the God of Sin himself, to find every last zone on her body at the perfect moment, all so that I can make sure her orgasms keep firing like pistons in a hot rod.

The cock once semi-hard now fully erect, stuffed inside her garden as I witness her finding heaven in my passion. She cums, once, twice, three more times for Daddy and then I fill her with my seed to her delight.

I rest easy these nights, never wondering if “almost” was in questions. Never worrying if I thoroughly satisfied my Kitten.

Never wondering, if it was just horseshoes and hand grenades.


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