Relapse

todo

I’ve done so well not texting him. It’s a whole new form of torture I haven’t bothered with before. I haven’t deleted Incredicock out of my phone AND I’ve managed to not horrify myself by caving and begging him to come over. I’ve run miles, sat on my hands and knit a dozen mittens.

A day full of visual foreplay had me biting my lip, raw.

J- My God you smell good.

M- I smell good?

Fuck.

That was supposed to be a thought…. but it fell right out of my mouth. The man is a walking menu of my favorite things and I was so distracted that my filter fell off. I’m drowning in adjectives and praying no more of them escape.

This is some insanely awkward territory.

Home run, slam dunk, touchdown pass…. I only know-go-big-or-go home.  I don’t speak half-assed and I don’t play to qualify or lose.

He’ll lift the heavy things and make my days, visually satisfying. Seems pretty win-win to me.

I walked up behind him when he was sewing and my words died in my mouth at the sight of his neck. Freshly shaven anything in my world, begs to be touched. Christ on the Cross. I stuck my hands in my pockets and bolted for the door.

M- What?

J- Nothing.

It’s been way too long since I’ve had a man in my house. I’m stunned by the physical presence of him sitting at my desk, and wished my elliptical machine weren’t in the same room as him because there’s absolutely no way that’s happening.

3 rounds of Pretty Pretty Princess, Go Fish and The Squirrel game with Baby Sparkle and The Dumpling later… he was done and heading out the door.

I can do this. I can take one for the team and be part of the greater good. Welcome to management and running 30 miles instead of minutes. I was a half hour into my run when the idea occurred. Sorry, that’s a bold faced lie. I wake up every single morning between 2-3 with my legs tied in knots, fighting this idea.

I slowed to a walk and pulled my phone out. How in the world do I phrase this. “Need” feels like too strong of a word. “Want” feels cheap, or at least not in the ballpark of where I’m at.

J- Hey.

She of so many words, has nothing but a solid determination not to beg.

I- Hey.

J- Busy? I need your help with something.

Whoops. I was doing my best to avoid the N word.

I- With what? On my way.

Thanks be to God. I haven’t slept in weeks, I’ve run myself into oblivion and am sick on inspiration. Masturbating like a teenaged boy, with no relief. I do neeeeeeeeeeed him. I dropped my clothes at the side of my bed, kicked off my socks and laughed. I love my life. Hearing his tires crunch in the driveway makes my heart race and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Today is a good day, y’all.

He came in grinning, adding his own clothes to the path I left behind… raising an eyebrow at me. I’m lightheaded. He’s naked and I thanked God, out loud.

One, two, three four… so many orgasms and I still get more. He’s my very favorite ride. (Sorry, Mom.)

Just like that, he was gone again and I was kicking myself for the fresh highlight reel destined to torture me with renewed vigor. I know I shouldn’t. I can’t not. I fall asleep wanting him… wake up craving him and can’t. It’s an intense form of self torture, but the satisfaction outweighs the suffering and I can’t quit him.

So if you need me, I’ll be running it off. Sigh…

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