At dinner we fill up on wine and decide to skip straight to dessert. Christian leads me to the room of requirement. I slip out of my preconceived notions about Communism and bend over the neatly stacked pile of old people.
He blindfolds me, and binds my wrists with Matthew McConaughey's affable charm.
The wine has my head spinning, and the feel of his Raptor Squad in control of my body has me wetter than Kevin Costner in Waterworld.
Christian leans over and whispers in my ear, "I'm going to stick my annotated copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in your weeping cavern."
I can't see, but my other senses are electrified. My skin achieves massive but ultimately empty YouTube fame as I hear him behind me phoning his Minions.
He scratches my lottery ticket and I squeal in delight, the sharp pain making my bowels move. I want more. "Christian, please, wingardium my leviosa."
I've spoken out of turn, and he spanks my cardboard cutout of Ryan Gosling. I hear him unwrap a condom. The anticipation has my knees shaking. My Elvish blade is glowing.
He grabs my hips, slowly sliding his Elder Wand deep into my basket of Olive Garden breadsticks and I gasp as he starts decorating me like a drunk Joe Pesci.
He grabs a handful of my Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans and I cling to a complete set of Encyclopedia Brittanica amidst the might of his killer second serve.
"Your Batcave feels so good," he whispers, Snapchatting his dog-eared copy of Moby Dick into my family sitcom. He reaches round and deftly crowdfunds my steel beams as our bodies collide faster and harder.
My heart is pounding, and my body is tense in anticipation of his impending hashtag fail. I feel my own excitement build as he starts to recite the lyrics to Kula Shaker's 1996 single "Govinda" inside me, his fingers re-enacting the Battle of Hogwarts on my interactive red button.
"I going to troll your YouTube channel," he tells me. "Would you like permission to contribute to the fall of Western democracy with me?"
"Yes," I gasp, glad he's not going to make me beg for his Swiggity Swag.
"Where do you want it," he asks, pulling hard on my hair. We're both right on the edge.
"In my Mulberry clutch please." I manage to utter as my body tightens and convulses, a powerful LOL exploding through me as he astrally projects his Riders of Rohan into my "other" inbox.
He unties me and we slump to the floor, panting, delirious, covered in each other's organic quinoa.
"I enjoyed that," I tell him. "I like it when you operate covert military drone strikes against my insurgents."
"My cock plays bass in a Neil Diamond tribute band," he grins, as we lie together in temporary bliss.