"No, no; don't worry about it! I actually like making beds!"
She smiles sweetly, but her mind reflects a darker joy. Looking at the mangled sofa coach, the tightly twisted comforter; she is filled with a subtle excitement. Her thoughts tease, "Did we keep him up?" Looking at the small wet spots in the fabric discovered in the sheets and the pillow cases. Tears? Semen? The belief that she scored both points last night made her wet.
Besides, if the neighbors heard her orgasms...
Even Van Gogh's rest would've been disturbed in the living room...
Neatly unraveling the linen, she thinks about him tossing and turning all night. Noise sensitive? Jealous? Swish...the crowd in her mind goes wild. "How'd you sleep?" His answer falls on uninterested ears; she knows the truth: terrible.
The headboard maintained a rhythmic ruckus.
Their voices testified with deep moan and shrill climaxes.
Shit, he got a cramp in his abdomen, she made him come so damn hard.
Making breakfast for him, she jokes, "You know, he never gets to his breakfast while its warm." Her omelet: perfect. Fresh, squeezed O.J: sweet. The only bitterness that would cause his chewing jaw to twist: he's in love with the man snoring in her bed. "Salt?" She knew from the moment they met, the way he looks at him gave it all away. Oddly, she likes it.
Walking to the refrigerator, she wonders if he picks up on her man's scent all over her body. Envious? Curious? She begins to imagine him peeking into their private moment. Hating the scent of pussy, yet unable to lift his eyes off its magic. Hating the name smeared all over his moans, "MIRIAM", yet loving the sight of him shoot. Indulge in the idea of scoring two points that night...swish. Envy and curiosity turns his breakfast sour.
His awkward steps out her home,
"Thank you for the breakfast.
I wish I could finish, but I'm running late for my 10 o'clock,"
inspired her to give her man a wake-up call.
|"In Grand Stile" by Steven Meisel|