I got into a discussion this morning about the meaning of the word "leisure".
I described, in response, a scene: winter has closed in, turning the sky a dusky grey, no matter what time it is. Mid-afternoon, I'm sitting in a big, squashy sofa, a steaming mug of hot chocolate to one side with a very good book in my hand. There's soft classical music playing on the radio and a huge, roaring fire in the fireplace. My cat is on my lap, purring contentedly as I exhale slowly and enjoy the stillness.
I wasn't alone, subsequently, in expressing discomfort that this wasn't, in fact, what was happening, in contrast to the corporate room with white walls, fading lights and uniform grey carpet tiles, frosted glass keeping out any view of the outside world. In reality, though - in these dark and despondent times - who wouldn't?
I know that I, certainly, want to be in that room, with that fire, and that drink, and that book, and that cat, and that music, on that sofa... in that room.
Cupping the bum of the girl on top of me as my smooth, firm cock slides easily into her warm, slick cunt. The book discarded on the floor. The hot chocolate, ignored, steaming away on a coffee table somewhere. The cat nestled by the fire, not wanting to interfere. The music accompanying us, guiding us on in our lust, both our bodies caressed in the warmth and the glow and the music and the stillness. As we caress each other.
And as I let go and shoot my warm, sticky cum inside her, her inner walls tight around my throbbing shaft, I let out a sound less like a grunt, groan or moan, but more of a contented sigh, looking upon her as both our bodies shine with sweat.
Because that's the sort of leisure I want right now.