Too many hours into his day, he showed up looking every bit the wet dream he is. I am incredibly tempted to strip my clothes off at the door, pull his work shirt on and ruin it for him permanently. Not because I want to be possessive, but because I want him to think of it every morning that he gets dressed for work.
We’re at that level of Good-God-Get-Naked inspiration.
In true fashion, I cooked. I dug potatoes. Miss Lovely called and asked right away:
L- “Mmmm what did you cook?
I’m ridiculously domestic, and when you satisfy me, I feed you. I suppose it’s my Mormon roots rearing their subservient head. At any rate, I cooked it all… and we didn’t touch a single thing. I didn’t eat so much as one slice of the tomatoes I’ve been waiting for since February. He’s the meal I’ve been craving, the vitamin I’m deficient in and the best friend a girl could ask for.
He’s the Viceroy of Vulva. Lord of the Labia. King of the Clitoris.
Mr. So Fucking Good I Can’t Think Straight.
I was on the phone with my darling Lovely as I ran around the house in breathless anticipation.
L-“Well I hope you have a wonderful time tonight”
I choked on the beer I was drinking and laughed.
J- “I’m more concerned about where I can find a wheelchair, tomorrow.”
I guess I should feel a little guilty about the situation. I’m incinerating some pretty enormous cardinal rules I’ve always held… but.
This adorably funny man is my animated sex toy. My wish? His command. He’s where I want him and how I want him, for as long as my hungry body desires. I don’t know how he does it, I’m just grateful to be on the receiving end of such titanic inspiration.
K- Where do you want me?
Y’all. Is this real life? I’m torn between tying him to my bed and tossing him the rope. Realizing now why they sell those Clone a willy kits because I’ve seen the promised land in this penis. He should be mass produced and widely distributed. We can all remember our favorite orgasm and after last night, I have a new favorite. Bless him.
I took my first night off in 5 years and am shaking like a car on bad gas this morning. My silky smooth, freshly waxed thighs were every bit the kryptonite I knew they’d be… but I’m afraid I was their ultimate victim.
A short run this morning nearly killed me, squats are completely out of the question and my 8 pound weights feel like 20. Pale blue fingerprint bruises map out the path he burned across my body last night and I can’t help but blush at a few of the flashbacks.
God bless Mr. Incredicock
and God save the satisfied Queen.
Also, does anyone have a wheelchair I could borrow?