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He’s been playing for an hour and a half now. Still hasn’t won. His wrists and hands are sore and his feet are falling asleep. He keeps playing. He doesn’t know what else to do.
I’ll never force my way past the walls of a girl’s pseudo-moral denials of pleasure.
You take her hand and put it against your straining hardness, hoping against your ever-increasing cognizance that she’ll do it, that she’ll act on impulse and please you.