Wasn't it Sartre who said that every day we make the choice to go on living, so we are responsible for the state of our lives -- after all we chose it... right?Right now, even as I type these words, there is a woman under my desk. It's a big desk. I chose it because it was big. Not so I could get a woman underneath it, but for the desktop surface area. It just so happens that I can fit a woman underneath it. She's on her knees, of course. I gave her a pillow. Her mouth is around my cock, slowly. I ought not to be kneeling in these trousers; they’re expensive. Then again, the floor is starlight, so my pants will probably be fine.“Basya.” My cock leaps towards her. I resent its thoughtless freedom and hate this undeniable proof of my lust. “Don’t trap me. Let me—”“What?” Her nails cut over my cheek. “Make love to me?”Am I gambling with sex or asking for equality. “Yes.”Her smug smile falters. For a moment, my dark goddess is just a young woman, full of self-doubt and hope. Then she. More

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