No joke. This is getting bad. And the clock does not start over just because I came a hundred little times in my sleep. By tomorrow I’ll have gone 10 days without.
My body rejects the neglect, my mind is curdling, too. Had anyone happened to stop by or enjoy the warm summer breeze outside last night they’d have encountered a grown woman wearing only eyelet shorts swaying to her own music.
The feel of the cool steel banister on my nipples, my hands on the planes of my belly, my white breasts triangles floating on nutmeg-cream. I dared anyone to enter my revery.
But, luckily, no one did.