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It takes a moment for him to compose himself for the lovely maiden who comes to cook and molest him after he's breathed all his lust onto my neck, and I watch him, near silence, tidy his hair and prepare himself for a barrage of attention.

I feel like a willing sacrificial lamb, shivering in the face of slaughter. And there's nowhere else I want to be.

The lady is sweet and lovely, very hospitable. We visit a local pub where I buy her a Screaming Orgasm, then return to watch a movie while she massages his back, grinds against him, and pants her desperation into his ear. I sit, watch, smile; I hold his hand while he ravages her and kiss him when asked. She is shy with fellow females, but expresses concern at what she judges as their neglect towards me, and I assure her that I'm entirely satisfied by watching.

He bucks against her, and when she gasps, he adopts that heart-rending smirk and nibbles on his lip-ring. I play the part of the voyeur, and she's worried for my eventual satisfaction, when really what I observe is art.

He recieves a call from his Tornado, a lady whose magical and turbulent nature always manages to sweep his feet from under him and throw his world assunder. He takes the call outside, and while at no point do I choose to listen in on the words of the conversation, I occasionally pause the movies I have on to judge where he is, that he's still nearby, that he's still speaking. When he returns, he says that he's had something else precious taken from him, and both me and the present lady drape our arms over him and ache for his loss.

She recieves a text message that sends her heart reeling with shock and awe, as the charge dozes on the living room floor; I listen to her weeping her astonishment and offer her a hug before she leaves. Again, I lie down next to him again and fall asleep to pretty words and soft caresses.

The next morning, I wake and rise to dress with him. When I put on my shoes, he expresses mild surprise that I plan to go with him, and I tell him I'm not letting him go anywhere without me today. I sit with him in his car and at his workplace; I hold my breath whenever he walks past me, and wait, and cannot eat the lunch he serves me. I watch him and hold my breath and hope I'm not being overbearing.

I am quiet unless I am joking with his co-workers. I listen to him when he talks and offer calm council. I text a friend about my own predicament, since this is no context to air it in. I wait and worry and hold my breath.

We return with a shopping list provided by the lady, and I follow him around in the supermarket. I look at everything and want nothing. What more could I want? I'm not greedy.

Tonight we are served Indian food made by the lady; it is delicious, but I'm incapable of sneaking it past my nerves. We watch more movies, and she states that she intends to push her boundaries with women. I ask where she'd like to start, and she is unsure, so I offer platonic levels of affection, playing with her hair, not touching below her neck.

She straddles and massages him while I stroke her silken hair, then he turns over to grind against her again. He has her turn to face me, and occasionally sits up to kiss his neck while I brush the hair from her shoulders. His eyes graze me occasionally while he does this, and it feels like lightning.

I'm sorry I'm not more affectionate with words ...

Whenever he leaves me in his home while he works, I curl up around my phone in his spot on the bed. I tease him with text messages. I sigh and fret and wait for him to return. Tonight, when he does, he asks if I'm ready, and we go to the grocery store with another shopping list.
The lady cooks again, and says she can push her boundaries further, but is still unsure of where they lie. Tonight I choose to trail fingers over her torso, her back, her neck, through her hair, over her ribcage and waist, and over time she starts to writhe. The charge watches me in seeming fascination. He does what I do. I leave off brushing erogenous zones until she's desperate, yet stay at the torso.

Are you aching yet?

She jokes that I've given up a crucial female secret; we ache, too. Blue labia. She tries to kick off her jeans, but can't, and laughs desperately, then he sinks between her legs and teases her, encourages her to kiss me. It takes a few minutes, but she eventually accepts, and I maintain the utmost care in not crossing her boundaries. She asks again, after her climax, if I'm really, truly fine with not having my own. I watch as he takes his pleasure from her, and again I see fine art.

After she leaves, he expresses regret over not getting to touch me more, and states that I deserve the attention. His hands slide up my thighs and I whimper, his fingers slip over me and I moan.

I want to hear the song you sing.

He growls for me again and I feel content; I fall asleep wrapped in strong arms that I in turn cling to. I love having him to myself, though that's not remotely fair, considering that she saw him long before I did.


April 2012

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