You were Henry the eighth, and I, Ann Boleyn, the radical. You told me to suck your dick, I knew I had no choice but remained vigilant as you placed one sand-papery callused hand (and why so callused?) on the back of my delicate neck propelling yourself deeper with each plunge of my rhythm while I struggled to maintain my four legged poise on slippery silken sheets. I knew you wouldn’t do your own bidding but my neck stiffened warily as you advanced toward orgasm driving my head more coarsely into your musty crotch. I fought to control the insult of my gag reflex wishing only to glimpse your eyes and hand instead of your legs’ bulging varicose veins. How else to be sure of your temper? Suddenly, pulled on top of you you sluiced in, startling the wind out of me with the dazzle of swift penetration. I looked around, disoriented, wondering how we’d migrated from our royal throne of a bed it’s oaken bedposts ornately carved with optimistic, profane images (to aid in the speedy conception of your heir), to this naked mattress on the floor, grayed fan oscillating its humid breeze, curtainless room dusky with streetlight, your hand, callused from unloading trucks still clenching my hip irritable cat eyeing me as I sighed in dismount.