He kept his socks on. Not because his girlfriend had asked him to. Not because he himself got a kick out of it. But because both of them were horny as hell and couldn’t be bothered to remove even a single item of clothing before embarking on the usually pleasant sweaty entanglement of bodies.
As she leaned against the kitchen table, he began thrusting his pelvis, in no way different from the previous times they had fucked. But something was amiss. The passion that had ignited the impromptu tryst was not apparent to his girlfriend. As in: boredom ruled rather than ecstasy. “What’s holding you back?” she asked him at last, slightly annoyed.
It were the socks, he realized. The smooth, silk-like polyester on his feet did not agree with the recently polished stone floor. Each time he tried to put some force behind his lustful actions, his feet slipped and thereby made evaporate his original animalesque intentions.
They adjusted positions – she lay on her back now – but that only seemed to compound the problem. He kept slipping, she kept rolling her eyes, which kind of undermined the fun. He could have removed his socks, of course, but somehow neither of them contemplated that option. They just went at it for another couple of minutes, till he more or less climaxed and she didn’t even bother to pretend that she did.
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