Sir says I should stop rubbing and just get to bed already.
But I think that’s silly.
And that I have better priorities.
hands
“Listen. Look. Desire is a house. Desire needs closed space. Desire runs out of doors or windows, or slats or pinpricks, it can’t fit under the sky, too large. Close the doors. Close the windows.” – Aimee Bender, Willful Creatures.
Today marks the beginning of the last two weeks of my job and if I don’t strangle anybody I am buying myself a burrito on the way home.
One month one month one month from todayyyy.
So maybe
maybe
I have a teensy tiny fixation.
A woman I lift with a lot told me the other day that she encounters two kinds of people here. The first category is those who walk in and think they can just start heavy shit right away. The second category is made up people who underestimate their abilities and shoot lower than they actually can reach.
According to her, I fall into the second category. I’m the kind of person who hates being bad at things, who hates disappointing myself to such a degree that sometimes I go just under the bar of what I know I can do. And, even more likely, I just have no idea what I can do in the first place.
I think I’d like to start overestimating myself.
He gets handsy a lot.
Sometimes, in public. Especially when it’s just the two of us. He pinches my nipple through my shirt, or grabs my butt, or teases my pussy through my panties if I’m hanging around without pants on.
He was tired – more like slap-happy – the evening after he arrived. While I was at the sink, washing off my makeup and brushing my teeth, he kept walking between the bedroom and the bathroom. He’d grab my breasts and play with them, walk back to the bed and lie down, get back up and grope me in the bathroom, go back to the bedroom.
Eventually, I was laughing so hard I could barely handle a toothbrush in my mouth.
Sir: You know what they say about guys with big hands?
Me: Big gloves!
Sir: No, silly. Ouchie spanks.
I love that tiny, almost imperceptible clench as he draws the ice across her skin.
“What’s that, love? Want to keep pretending you don’t like being the center of attention?”