The problem with being “it” when we played Pleasure Island was I was always it. Okay, maybe not always, but mostly. Sometimes Logan was it, but Leila never was. Good as I felt after being it, and I felt very very good, I felt slightly guilty. My two favorite people in the world pleasuring me with uninhibited verve and joy and skill...

Except, except, except, after, with me wiped out with pleasure, immersed in a cocoon of well-being, on the verge of sated slumber, Logan and Leila, lying next to me, made love. And I couldn’t help feeling that was the main event. I was just an appetizer for them. Now the adults were fucking. Oh God were they fucking. And I, having been it, stranded on an island of myself, was powerless to participate. They fucked as if I weren’t there. Or maybe, somewhere deep down, me being there, helpless to do anything but witness their pleasure in each other, added to their pleasure.

Okay, nothing wrong with that, right?

Maybe what it was was simple as this: When Logan finally came deep in Leila’s cunt, I wanted to feel that cock coming deep in my cunt. My selfish greedy insatiable cunt wanted every throb and push and pulse of that lovely coming cock. My selfish greedy insatiable cunt wanted every drop of his creamy hot seed. My selfish greedy insatiable cunt wanted all his fuck, all his love, all his everything. Forever.

Fuck.