Would you fuck me raw or use a condom?

The question hangs in the air like heat before a storm, and suddenly every decision feels loaded with weight. Soft curves catch the light just right, the kind of body that makes your hands forget what they were doing a second ago.

You find yourself actually considering it — not as hypothetical, but as something immediate, something your pulse is already answering for you. Skin that looks warm to the touch, hips that suggest a particular kind of gravity.

Both options feel like a different kind of surrender. Raw means nothing between you, every sensation direct and unfiltered. Covered means slowing down just long enough to confirm this is absolutely happening.