Drabble. Post 513. That is all.

* * *

You used to get turned on by tall, muscled bodies, by overpowering men as big as yourself, bigger even.

Then it was blue eyes, bright smiles, running your fingers through blond silk.

Now, now it's the smell of turpentine, it's flecks of blue and grey under fingernails.

It's the sighs he makes when you massage his shoulders, his hand, working out the ache after long hours of painting.

It's coming inside his ass, letting it drip back down over your balls, your cock, still inside him. Always still inside him.

It's his laugh at the squelching sounds.

It's your lover.