The Great Sael Adventure 1
Deciding you know what's best and the Commodore is just being a big ole silly-willy fuddy-duddy, you tap him on the nose with your map.
The Commodore's eyes are ready to devour you, his teeth to simply ravage you. He turns to you, looming over you, like a cat about to pounce on its prey. He slams his fist on the table, unyielding in its resolve. His arms grasp the sides of the table between you, squeezing it into submission.
The Commodore breathes in your scent, smelling of bitter muskmelon and tobacco. He opens his mouth and begins whispering sweet nothings in your ear: "I'm gonna map you silly, you bad, bad boy!" "I'm the map!" he sings. "Sex marks the spot!"
His breath smells of apricots and chardonnay. He mutters, "I want to 'X marks the sex' all over your body because, atlas, you're the key to my heart."
Your eyes widen. You plead, "Only if you'll give me a compass rosebud all over this desk."
The Commodore grins, his teeth glistening, dampened with saliva. "I'm just concerned about how noticing that when it's laying flat, it looks longer than if you wrap it around will feel because I doubt you have followed a map, let alone followed your heart in a while."
You challenge him with a glare. "What makes you think I haven't excavated someone to discover what they're hiding in a while? I mean, if the map fits! I bet I could pin you down better than anyone you've ever tangled with!"
The Commodore chuckles and slowly moves his tongue over his lips. "I need you to prove that you can lay claim to my body better than any of the men who have ever used the Winkel tripel on me!"
You slap him. "How's that for 'Capital'?"
"Excellent," the Commodore breathes huskily as he westwardly expands toward your pelvis. "Next stop, Manifest Destiny!"
Quicker than ink dries on paper, you pull his border dispute. You have the gall, the Gall stereographic projection, that is!
In a flash, you smell his adventure and mount him. You tug his hair as you push his face in the desk. You exclaim, triumphantly, "I'd like to go off the grid!"
The Commodore moans, submissively, to your will, "Water isn't the only body you know how to explore!"
You grunt, thrusting deeply, "This is bringing my little explorer to new elevations!" over and over again. You grasp your arm around the Commodore's chest, pulling him closer, wanting, more than anything, to learn where the east meets the west.
Feeling the Commodore weaken with each of your thrusts, you sense he's reaching his breaking point, and that very soon he will be screaming "Mapmaker, mapmaker, make me a map!"
"Touch your long, floppy map!" you cry out as you slam into him one final time.
The two of you catch your breath, and through hypnotic and satiated panting, the Commodore exclaims, "I need to confess, I'm a map-o-chist! You came all over my latitude." Shaking, the Commodore pulls himself up, yanking his trousers up from his ankles to his groin and fastening them. He turns to you, beaming, and mutters, "Thank you for pinning me down. You, in fact, can put some map in your yap better than any man I have encountered."
You nod, slightly embarrassed, but grateful. As you look at your dirtied map on the table, you exclaim, "Looks like the GPS quit working! Good thing we had a condom!"
The Commodore laughs, slaps your behind, and says, "How about tomorrow?" as he retires to his room, exhausted after exploring this territory together.
Boy, you sure learned a lesson about using your own map, didn't you?
Let this be a lesson to you, young traveler. If you decide to cross some borders, make sure to remember, "Location! Location! Location!"
The Commodore's eyes are ready to devour you, his teeth to simply ravage you. He turns to you, looming over you, like a cat about to pounce on its prey. He slams his fist on the table, unyielding in its resolve. His arms grasp the sides of the table between you, squeezing it into submission.
The Commodore breathes in your scent, smelling of bitter muskmelon and tobacco. He opens his mouth and begins whispering sweet nothings in your ear: "I'm gonna map you silly, you bad, bad boy!" "I'm the map!" he sings. "Sex marks the spot!"
His breath smells of apricots and chardonnay. He mutters, "I want to 'X marks the sex' all over your body because, atlas, you're the key to my heart."
Your eyes widen. You plead, "Only if you'll give me a compass rosebud all over this desk."
The Commodore grins, his teeth glistening, dampened with saliva. "I'm just concerned about how noticing that when it's laying flat, it looks longer than if you wrap it around will feel because I doubt you have followed a map, let alone followed your heart in a while."
You challenge him with a glare. "What makes you think I haven't excavated someone to discover what they're hiding in a while? I mean, if the map fits! I bet I could pin you down better than anyone you've ever tangled with!"
The Commodore chuckles and slowly moves his tongue over his lips. "I need you to prove that you can lay claim to my body better than any of the men who have ever used the Winkel tripel on me!"
You slap him. "How's that for 'Capital'?"
"Excellent," the Commodore breathes huskily as he westwardly expands toward your pelvis. "Next stop, Manifest Destiny!"
Quicker than ink dries on paper, you pull his border dispute. You have the gall, the Gall stereographic projection, that is!
In a flash, you smell his adventure and mount him. You tug his hair as you push his face in the desk. You exclaim, triumphantly, "I'd like to go off the grid!"
The Commodore moans, submissively, to your will, "Water isn't the only body you know how to explore!"
You grunt, thrusting deeply, "This is bringing my little explorer to new elevations!" over and over again. You grasp your arm around the Commodore's chest, pulling him closer, wanting, more than anything, to learn where the east meets the west.
Feeling the Commodore weaken with each of your thrusts, you sense he's reaching his breaking point, and that very soon he will be screaming "Mapmaker, mapmaker, make me a map!"
"Touch your long, floppy map!" you cry out as you slam into him one final time.
The two of you catch your breath, and through hypnotic and satiated panting, the Commodore exclaims, "I need to confess, I'm a map-o-chist! You came all over my latitude." Shaking, the Commodore pulls himself up, yanking his trousers up from his ankles to his groin and fastening them. He turns to you, beaming, and mutters, "Thank you for pinning me down. You, in fact, can put some map in your yap better than any man I have encountered."
You nod, slightly embarrassed, but grateful. As you look at your dirtied map on the table, you exclaim, "Looks like the GPS quit working! Good thing we had a condom!"
The Commodore laughs, slaps your behind, and says, "How about tomorrow?" as he retires to his room, exhausted after exploring this territory together.
Boy, you sure learned a lesson about using your own map, didn't you?
Let this be a lesson to you, young traveler. If you decide to cross some borders, make sure to remember, "Location! Location! Location!"
