Dirty Boxer

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he reveres each roll, each plump curve as a sign of wealth and prosperity. he’s not materialistic, nor is he one to care for societies opinions in the slightest, but he’s also not blind to the way people stare, and the way that they talk. if nothing else, he’s prideful - and that pride filters down to his wife, for is she not an extension of him? irrevocably his in the same way the fresh buds blooming in the garden are, etched in his image like the gilded halls of his temple. belonging to him as innately as each of his muscled limbs do.

he hears the servants chatter; look how well fed the kings darling pet is, how cared for and doted on she must be. their eyes follow you as you walk, delicate and barefooted, draped in the finest silks and jewels. freshly bathed and painted in a healthy flush, with your skin oiled and glowing as you lounge and eat freshly picked fruits from the garden. you eat with fervour, with pleasure, letting the sweet juice coat your fingers, slip in glistening dribbles down your chin and past the dip of your throat until he prowls across the garden and licks you clean, one great hand planted firmly over the swell of your belly.

“i love you,” you say, hips rolling harder against his. “i love you, i love you, i love you.”

jake and sammy you are very dear to me