My ass hurts today.
Unsurprising, given what we’ve been up to, but upsetting nonetheless. It’s making it goddamn hard to think of anything other than his cock, and the way he gives it to me. Every time I move, I feel where he was. When I sit, or stand, or clench, I’m served a disturbing reminder.
*
Damn.
The silence is loud without him. It’s echoing around me. I consider heading out for a walk, but I know the odds are fifty-fifty I’ll get myself lost in the woods. Drop me in the center of Rome during rush hour and I’ll be peachy keen. I’ll take care of myself. Drop me outdoors and my odds lower considerably. I sit on the porch. Then I walk down to the lake. I try to skip stones on the water like they do in the movies but it’s harder than it looks, and I can’t make the stones hop. I go back indoors and move a little more furniture. The décor of this place kills me. It’s almost good. Almost, but not quite. For me, that’s more triggering than if it was terrible. Almost stunning but falls short.Ugh. There’s nothing worse.
There are great pieces dotted here and there. The architecture is good, too, but it’s dated and could do with tweaking. The kitchen needs to be gutted and moved to the front of the house, so it’s overlooking the lake. The horrible sliding doors need to be torn out and the entire wall facing the lake should be replaced with floor to ceiling glass. It could be amazing.
I make a mental note to tell him about these improvements as I move a couple of the ugly side tables out of the living room and into his bedroom.
*
Shit, today feels long.
The hours are crawling by.
Purely out of boredom, I do load and run the dishwasher. Long story short, it’s more of an involved process than I imagined it would be. I end up spilling meat juice down my front and have to wash my clothes again. There’s a lot less to be said for the laundering process when you don’t land up getting plowed on the machine.
While my clothes are being washed, I have a little rummage through Saint’s wardrobe and put on a pair of his jeans and one of his white Henleys. His clothes are big on me, so I pair the jeans with a belt and tie the Henley in a knot at my midriff. I briefly consider cropping it with one of the sharp-as-fuck knives he has in the kitchen, but I decide against it in the end. Not for any major reason. Definitely not because I think he looks hot in this particular garment. I just lose interest in the project, that’s all.
*
Good actual God, it’s been a long day.
How long is it reasonable for such an, um, task, to take? He’s been gone since sparrow fart and he isn’t back yet. It’s getting dark. I’m starting to feel worried. If something’s happened to him, I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle. I have no clue where I am and have no way to call for help. Even if you take being implicated in a murder out of the equation, Saint was right, I wouldn’t survive in the wild. I don’t have what it takes. It’s going to be nothing short of gruesome if I have to hike to freedom.
*
At long last, I hear a rustle in the bushes in the direction we came from when we arrived here. I jump up and head towards it.
“What are you doing out here?” He’s suddenly closer to me than I was expecting. The cool night air clings to his clothes and his hair. He takes the back of my neck in one of his big hands. “What if it was someone else?”
“I knew it was you.”
“How? It’s pitch dark?”
“’Cause I can smell you, Asshole. You stink.” He makes a low, harsh sound into my open mouth. “How did it go?” At least, that’s what I mean to say. That’s what I think I say, but it isn’t easy talking around someone else’s tongue.
He slides a hand into the back of my jeans. His jeans. Whatever. You know what I mean. I’m not wearing any underwear, so as soon as he does it, it’s his skin on mine. A hot, callused hand gropes my ass cheek. He doesn’t answer my question with words, but his eyes glint with a dark sheen of calm, and I know it went well. It’s done. It’s taken care of. I have nothing to fear.
He unbuckles my belt and puts another hand into my pants. He squeezes my cheeks together roughly and then gently pries them apart. He runs a finger slowly down my crack, circling my hole with the lightest of touches.
“You hurtin’, or you gonna spread your legs for me?”
“I’m not hurting.” It’s not even a lie. It’s the truth. The pain in my ass vanished the second I heard his voice. The second he touched me. The second I saw his face. It vanished completely, only to be replaced by a deep, intense ache. An ache to be filled.
Much later I find myself sitting on one of the Adirondacks at the bank of the lake. Moonlight is hitting the water, sending a jagged path of reflections my way. I’m sitting tender. Very tender. I gave him some constructive criticism about the consistency of the carbonara he made for our dinner, and he thanked me for it by giving me a short but memorable run-in with a wooden spoon. He made me put both hands on the kitchen counter and worked my jeans down to just below the shelf of my ass. It was quick and decisive.
He said, “Mistakes have been made, now lessons will be learned”.
I nearly came in my pants. He had me dancing in seconds and begging to be fucked within minutes. And I don’t mean asking nicely, or simply nodding my head. I meanbegging, begging.
God, it’s embarrassing.
I hear myself saying, “You need to gut the kitchen and move it to where the dining area is now.” I appear to be giving him free interior design advice. “I’d go with mat white cabinets and a long island clad in back-lit Carrara marble. You want it to look like the island is floating on the timber floor.”
