How Playstation Ruined My Life

“Play with me,” she cooed, posing seductively on the sofa. She’d worn his favourite outfit, barely there black leather and lace.

He shifted in his seat, reaching out to gently caress sleek curves, reverence in his touch.

Need settled in her belly. She ached. She craved.

A light flick.

A twist.

A turn.

Another.

And one more.

She gasped. This was not what she’d expected.

“Oh, yes! Oh, there!”

He sped up, his movements rushed, almost jerky. This is what he’d been waiting for. This was going to be amazing.

A grunt.

A groan.

A scream pierced the air.

“Yes! I’m going to… I’m almost there!”

His hands flew faster, urgency in every touch.

“He scores!”

She jerked off the sofa, kicking the grey console that lay innocently on the floor between them with a six-inch-stiletto-covered foot. She turned and flounced from the room.

She hated that bloody Playstation.