It doesn’t take much, sometimes. A breeze through the window flowing across his naked balls can set him off. It brings back the scene of his cum splashing across her eyelashes. The sound of a jingling dog collar out on the sidewalk will make him hard. It reminds him of the jingling of his own collar and the feel of that long, smooth, dildo pumping into him in front of her girlfriends. Sometimes, it will just be the scent of vanilla that causes his buttocks to flex, involuntarily. It recalls the sight of her pissing into the banana bread batter. The taste of onion salt makes him catch his breath. The sight of her rubbing his cock and balls with her medium rare steak, before devouring it, was almost too much. These momentary lapses keep happening, with increasing frequency. They threaten to become the central purpose of his entire existence; to relive each wad-blowing moment of his life with her. Sometimes, he thinks he must be going mad. Nothing can be so good. Just when he thinks he is back in control, she reappears, drenched in jism, quivering beneath him, bucking on top of him, swallowing him whole, clenching his squirting nuts, screaming, whipping her hair, pounding her fists, kicking her legs in all directions. Is this a curse, or a gift? Is she satan, or an angel? Is she going to kill him, or breathe life into him just to kill him again? His nostrils and his cock flare with animal lust with the sight or smell or sound of her. Her touch is almost too much, almost too incendiary, almost too painful. But, he needs her as he needs the air. This is his destiny; she is his destiny. He will close his eyes, hold out his hand and allow her to lead him where she will.