When Peter is hard, aroused beyond recognition, all the signs change. There is no amber, green or red. We're in another dimension. Blood rushes through arteries. We're on a highway where rules fade and the only rule is to pleasure the flesh.

Beneath my fingers, his skin sings. I take pleasure in the stroke. He's capable of being satisfied with the simplest brush of the fingers or tight grip on his cock. The options stretch out, yet his protruding cock takes pride of place as our limbs untangle and I position myself between his thighs, on my elbows, eye to eye with his hard cock.

While some may think it profane to utter the word cock, I find it poetic. When he says that he wants my lips wrapped around his cock, it's his tone that does it. His razor-like tone may as well enter me. I adore it. Live for it. He doesn't tiptoe around the subject, uses his body to relay his need...