The End of Le Fuckboy

When the idea to write a post came up, I had about a good hour and a half to do so before the madness of motherhood begins. In the interim, I had a load of laundry washing and a pot of cold water on the stove awaiting a flame to boil it. After sweeping off a thin layer of dust from my computer and then twiddling my thumbs on my phone for nearly fifteen minute while it slowly started up, I finally have access…
Until I realized I had about 20 updates and 52 comments to filter through on WordPress before it can function properly for me to begin writing on (currently writing on my computers notepad). So now with less than an hour to spare and a pot of water coming to a boil on the stove, let me see if I can type out something other than “We need milk” and “I’ll see you when you get home.”
Life lately has been incredibly domestic. Not that it wasn’t before; the only difference before was me fucking other people and that definitely tends to shake things up. A year ago today there was a huge family crisis that put a lot of things to light about the man who had been living in my home. A man who claimed to consider my husband as a brother, who at one point I also considered family when I told my son to call him uncle. The same man who I had even developed feelings for and whom my best friend began fucking behind my back and lied to me about it. It was the first time we had ever stopped talking and the first time that I had ever thought about not being her friend anymore. It culminated with the authorities knocking on my door and partially threatening to remove my child because neighbors had complaints about activities that he was involved with. He never took the blame nor did he apologize. Instead he left to another state to be with a woman he had been speaking to for a few months, and as he told Chloe,

I’m just seeing her to forget about you…

About a week later, after nearly resorting to threatening him with a separation, I convinced Henri to go against his word and call him to tell him he couldn’t live here anymore and he needed to pick up his belongings. A month later he came to my home. He did not greet anyone, said “Thanks for holding my stuff,” and we haven’t heard or seen him since. Two months later, our case closed with the label “unfounded,” meaning that we were not the neglectful parents some anonymous person had claimed us to be. Instead, the caseworker had applauded our parenting and told us that for “a child who is clinically diagnosed on the autistic spectrum, he is well-behaved, well spoken, incredibly smart and talkative! You’re doing a great job mom.” As kind as her words were it helped little when this can still show up on my personal record and can take up to ten years to be expunged. It also does not repair the nights I lay awake, thinking that at any moment someone would ring my doorbell and take my son away. I couldn’t eat, I obsessively cleaned my house, I cried every day for a month, and even when I tried to sleep I would have nightmares waking me up at four in the morning. It was hell.

After the summer, Chloe could no longer contain her silence. By this time, she was in love with someone who was different from any other man she had ever been with and perhaps it made her question her previous liaisons, Maurice being the most recent. She told me that he said he was helping us pay bills, contributing with food, and even that he lent us money. All lies (minus the one time we had to ask him to pay half a bill that he ran up. One Fucking Time).

Still, the worse part had to be when she told me then that he had been giving Henri advice on how to be a man. How not to take shit from me, calling him out during moments where he felt his that his “brother” was being talked down to or disrespected. That I had to be put in my place and he would never allow a woman to talk to him the way I speak to Henri. But she also told me that he made a statement along the lines of “If I were attracted to Scarlett, I would have tried to fuck her by now…” And then it all became a little clearer: He was a partial reason as to why my marriage almost collapsed. He encouraged him to deal with things the way a “man” would, and sometimes would resort to calling out his manhood and taunting him. I thought that his taking advantage of our hospitality for two years was the worst thing he did. But giving unnecessary relationship advice while still sleeping on my sofa and causing an investigation where I have strangers hovering in my life to make sure I’m a good mother just blew away anything I could have ever known about one person.

The term Fuckboy has been floating around for more than a year or so, mostly on social media. Used by many of the youth of this generation, I find a fitting title to give him. Of all the definitions that I could find online, Urban Dictionary gave me one that was precise and made me giggle:

Fuckboy:

The fuckiest of the fucks, a “fuckboy” is the lowest possible form of the vile, degenerate waste pouring from the proverbial asshole of society. Calling some a fuckboy is the verbal equivalent of orally penetrating their mother, their dog, and their girlfriend in the span of approximately 3.94 seconds, and is only to be used on people who make pre-school slurs like “fucker” and “cunt” look like tokens of sainthood.

And then there was the simple “A manipulating dick who does whatever it takes to benefit him, regardless of who he screws over,” but I enjoy the one above better.

We have not heard from Le Fuckboy since the day he left, almost a year ago. He sent Chloe one message completely unrelated to this situation or theirs, and despite having the urge to verbal assault his character via text, she resisted and simply did not reply.

Shit. So much can change in a year…

-Scarlett

P.S: In case you’re wondering, Henri and I are doing fine, but that’s an update for another time.

Better late than never

I felt it coming back, in tiny fragments, like the memory of an amnesia patient.

A flash before I fell asleep at night…

The invisible touch from the past that tingles and causes my flesh to prickle…

An involuntary twitching, a need for something I hadn’t felt in months…

This was only a trickling of rain before the storm.

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I took a photo after the proverbial rainstorm. I needed to document it for myself and spent this whole day wondering if I should share it. But I think a bigger storm is coming, and I may be cumming with it and I’m thinking I want to share it because it feels so good.

-Scarlett

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TMI Tuesday: Fill in my fabulous blanks

 

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1. My favorite part of my current daily routine is making breakfast for my family.

2. Scott toilet paper is okay.

3. Biting my cuticles is my nervous habit.

4. Today I am thankful for SLEEP .

5. I cannot wait to snuggle in bed with my hunny.

6. Three things I’m looking forward to this fall are: pumpkin picking, colder weather, and colorful falling leaves.

7. I want to dress in sexier negligees this fall.

8. My best friend is lotion. Need to keep my skin silky.

Bonus: Would you take advice from a porn star? If yes, what type of advice would you like to hear.

This question seems pretty random considering the others, but honestly I don’t think I need advice from a porn star. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, I too enjoy porn from time to time. But I’ve done a lot of my own sexual research and feel pretty confident that I know enough about sex so as not to have the need to ask a porn star.

 

TMI Tuesday blog

Confessions of a one time submissive

It has been over a year since I last heard from Dre. Earlier this year, I did something that maybe I shouldn’t have done: I googled his name, and found him in a website he would frequent while we were involved. He seemed fine, had apparently updated his profile, etc. I knew then he wasn’t hurt or dead and that, by choice, I was someone he left behind without explanation. But I wasn’t sad. I was mad as hell. I made an account with the site and had every intention to write to him, curse him, shame him, and even call upon his bullshit Domness and manhood. Luckily my son’s bus came and by the time I had gotten him settled, I no longer had the urge to do any of that. What for? What would it prove to write to him? It would merely play to his ego in some perverse way and when I finally cooled down, my pride screamed loudly to my head and heart that I was not to give him that pleasure, so I deleted the account and fully decided to put Dre behind me.

I deleted many of the photos we took in our motel adventures, from my phone and my computer months before. Then one day surfing Instagram,  I found a photo that seemed very familiar. It was a photo he sent to me in the beginning when we were just chatting, of a woman with her ankles in a spreader bar restraint, hands bound behind her back and only boots visible, presumably his. He told me that he used to get paid to train spouses and girlfriends. Researching the image via google I found that it was an old photo, taken from a site that would take pictures of men and women in bondage situations and post them along with a story. Well that had sealed it up for me.

I’d been had by a wannabe Dom. 

Fucking great. It lasted a year and a half, and when I began asking for more, wanting more phone calls, more visits, more of a Dom/sub relationship, he began to keep his distance until I didn’t hear from him at all. It makes more sense now. But I’m the kind of girl who likes closure, even if that means telling me you’re the scum of the Earth or that it’s something negative about me. Eventually, I’ll get over it. But not knowing absolutely why, that was the blow he dealt that took me longer to get over than anything else. When it comes to Dre, I don’t miss him. There is no amorous affection, nor anger. While I learned some things because of our involvement together, he falls into the category of disappointing hook ups and failed lovers.

Being a “submissive” was interesting. I use the term loosely in reference to myself because I don’t think I was given the opportunity to fully enjoy it and all its intricate parts. However, the parts of it I was exposed to were exciting and did change me in a way I can never get back, to an extent that I feel in some way it has contributed to my lack of a sex drive. I don’t think I’m a sub after all but I loved the feel of it all. The tying up, the clothes pins on pussy and nipples, oh and the whipping and spanking…I miss those the most. I haven’t had a good spanking in over a year [insert sigh here]. I miss the kink. I am a bit self-directed during sex because it’s what I have grown accustomed to and it also comes naturally to me. I enjoy being dominated but also want to dominate. Some people might call that being a switch (or for those who don’t believe in switching, topping from the bottom). I found that none of those labels actually fit me because that would require a certain dedication to BDSM that I don’t really have and am not interested in at the moment. Kink is ultimately lacking in my life and that makes it near impossible for me to have sex with Henri. He’s not a kink kind of guy. I’m working on it though. Baby steps. Even though if they are baby fairy steps…

-Scarlett

This is my place

I come here to vent. To tell my side of the story; my truth.

And the truth is, if you want to hear Henri’s side, you’re not going to.

Before it has been typed and published here, he has heard it first. The things I need to tell him, I do.

“I want more romance…

I want to be more sexually adventurous…

I want you to eat me out more…

I want you to spend more time with me…”

I have told him these things because as part of my personality and as his wife, I have always tried to be as honest as possible with him. I have always told Henri before you hear it from someone else, you’ll hear it from me first.” It is a sentiment I stick to, whether the conversation is going to start an argument or hurt his feelings. Most of the time, if I come here I am usually reiterating the same subject I have spoken to him about and nothing has changed. And if it were to change, I would mention it.

I could say trust me, but I don’t have to. This is my space, to write about what I feel.

I once wrote about Henri’s side of the story when I began seeing Dre the “Dom” (and yes that Dom part is questionable as he wasn’t much of a Dom by how he disappeared). In all honesty, he didn’t like people asking him via my blog how he felt. He thought it was useless, but did it to appease me and my readers. I approached him about a comment I received and explained to him what I had written recently. I asked him if he felt I was wrong or offended in any way. He simply said no, and continued working on his computer. When I pushed a bit further, he said

“Tell them that I whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Literally, sweet nothings. Maybe they will understand that.”

I appreciate tips, comments, and advice. However I feel that sometimes I am defending myself for how I feel. Our relationship is no different that an ocean tide; sometimes it swells and it is beautiful; other times it becomes a tsunami that wreaks havoc. I have exhausted my attempts at keeping our sex life alive; it is now his turn to flip that switch. I have, on more than one occasion, surrounded the house with candles, laid out roses, dimmed the lights, had wine waiting, music playing, danced for him with a sexy outfit on–for lack of a better word, I have wooed him. And not once in the fifteen years that we’ve been together has he done the same for me. However, when this is mentioned, some people then want to say

“Well then why don’t you leave him?”

To answer that question plainly, we have a child together and simply, I love my husband. I feel it would be selfish of me to end our relationship due to our recent problems alone and deny my son a family because we can’t suck it up for a while. He possesses other qualities that are good and noble. My marriage is, as others also are, messy and confusing at times. No we are not always happy, but we are not always miserable either. 

I think this best explains my current sentiment (from a page on Tumblr):

Marriage is not beautiful

Marriage is ugly, you see the absolute worst in someone. You see them when they’re mad, sad, being stubborn, when they’re so unlovable they make you scream. But you also get to see them when they are laughing so hard that tears run down their face, and they can’t help but let out those weird gurgling noises. You see them at 3am when the world is asleep except you two, and you’re eating in the middle of the kitchen floor. You get to see the side of them that no one else does, and it’s not always pretty. Its snorting while laughing, its the tears when it feels like its all crashing down, its the farting, its the bedhead and bad breath, its the random dances, its the anger and the joy. Marriage isn’t a beautiful thing, but it is amazing. It’s knowing that someone loves you so much, and won’t leave you even though you said something nasty. It’s having someone have your back no matter what. Its fights over stupid things, like someone not doing the dishes or picking up after themselves. And it’s those nights you fall asleep in each others arms, feeling like there will never be enough time with them. It’s cleaning up their throw up, or just rubbing their back when they’re sick. It’s the dirtiest, hardest, most rewarding job there is. Because at the end of the day you get to crawl into bed with your best friend, the weirdest, most annoying, loving, goofy, perfect person that you know. Marriage is not beautiful, but it’s one heaven of a ride.

-Scarlett

Try a little tenderness 


Most days, this is my inner-response when Henri pushes for sex. He insists, I resist. I give in every so often, just to release some steam from his pot. I have remained adamant that I will not enjoy myself unless he gives me something to enjoy. There was a time that the mere view of a dick sent my pussy into overdrive. That is no longer the case. Maybe I’m dumb for thinking this or even writing this, but even though we are married, I want to be wooed. I want to be chased; I want that over-the-top rose petals on the bed, tapered candles, champagne, bubble bath, strawberries and whipped cream romance. A massage would be nice, and a very long cunnilingus session that results in more than one climax. Jeez at least he used to aim for one; now, it’s been four years and counting since I’ve been brought to spasms by oral sex (sadly, niether he nor any other man has made that happen).

I would pray but I wouldn’t know exactly what to pray for. Better sex? A better relationship? Can one exist without the other? No, I don’t think so. So far, the interactions between us are fairly well. We talk, hug, and kiss; the normal husband/wife things that husbands and wives do. We make jokes and carry conversations about the environment, the future and politics (don’t get me started on Trump). From one standpoint, we are much better now than we were five months ago. But I can’t shake the fear that if we can’t find a way to better our sex life, we will end up in the same place we started.

I think I’m moving backwards somehow. I turned 30 last month and while so many other women told me that this is when they reached their sexual peak, mine is waning tremendously. I’m starting to think that old saying is true: If you don’t use it, you lose it. Still waiting for the dirty thirties to kick into high gear (at least shift into first gear). I’m going to fetch me a drink and listen to this song on replay. Consider it nostalgia at 1 in the morning.

I don’t know if I care anymore

That’s not completely true. I care about my family. I care enough about my marriage not to want it to end. The point more or less is that I seem to care about everything else more than myself. I’m not being selfless; I just don’t have the same energy I used to have when it came to me. 

I’m trying to lose weight because I feel I should. It’s about time. Plus being overweight my whole life is truly over done. Not quite sure that it’s a good enough reason,  but I’m grasping at what ever I can to motivate me. I spoke to my doctor who just increased my thyroid medication, and he confirms that it will be difficult but not impossible to lose weight in this condition. I have to work harder than ever, harder than others. I wish I would have paid more attention in biology when we spoke about the importance of the thyroid. Every time I go see my doctor (minus 1 visit in five years) I am told my levels are too high or too low. Too high and I get dizzy spells, headaches, tremors, and nausea; too low and my cancer can come back. Thyroid problems: the only thing my mother ever gave me besides her huge thighs. Ain’t that a bitch? 

I have not yet gotten my Sexy back. She’s still on hiatus. I don’t text nor speak to any men; rarely view porn; and hardly masturbate since she went away. I think I touched myself three weeks ago. (I’m going to have to keep better track of these things) I am currently writing this on my phone so forgive the premature publish earlier. I don’t use it to reach the cocks of other men now, so other than mindless game apps and infrequent use of Facebook or Instagram, I haven’t had much use of my phone.

I had a train of thought the other day; more like memories and day dreams. Heavy breathing; sweat on brows; burrowed faces in my breasts; a feeling of euphoria. Why does it feel like forgotten history? Reliving a past life…

I haven’t had sex like that since early last year. It upsets, more than just to tears. I get angry at the men who have been in my life, those who left and those who remain. But I expend my energy by doing nothing. I don’t want to fuck this feeling away; the ability to do that is gone for now. My libido is like a runaway teen; I’m sure she’s going to come back, just not sure when. I wish I knew though. I miss the passion and desire. Getting wet without intent. Heaving and gasping for air, my mind a complete blank. I miss those small moments of bliss. Come back…I miss you…

-Scarlett

The Weight of a Marriage

While I’d like to say that I took such a hiatus from blogging because I’ve been having this phenomenal sex life and I’ve been much too busy to write about it, that’s not the case (and it rarely, if ever, is). All my absences from the blogosphere has been because of some type of crisis, usually having to do with my lack of sex partners or sex in general. But it’s more than that this time.

A few months ago, late March, I had reached a boiling point. The intimacy between Henri and I became non-existent. The moment I realized we had reached a point of no return was two nights before our huge argument. I was set on approaching him that night; instead, I drank a few shots of Tequila and smoked some herb, dancing in the twinkle the lit candles cast, the ones I scattered throughout the living room relishing in the rarity of having the room all to myself (our room mate, currently completely moved out, had spent the night elsewhere that day). I had showered and put on a tight pink and gray lace nightie that hugged me in all the right ways. I felt sexy, wild, and wicked. I haven’t felt like that since…

Henri walked through the door and I pounced on him, a wild animal waiting for her prey in the shadows. I sucked his cock before deciding to ride him, full of heat and passion. And then, for the second time that week, I felt his cock go soft while it was inside me.

“I’m really tired babe. It’s just been one of those days…” An excuse I heard too many times before. I remember drinking and smoking myself to oblivion, documenting the remnants of my sex appeal on Instagram and feeding my depleted ego with the comments people left behind.

Two nights after that we had our huge argument. We sat down eating Chinese takeout, and I decided that while we were both there, alone and calm, I would ask him why we are no longer intimate, why he was obviously not sexually into me like before.

“I’ve told you before, your health is very important to me, and I think you need to take this more seriously. I want you around for a long time…”

“Okay. My health is why you won’t fuck me? I’m not disabled, so tell me what is really your problem, because my health and you not wanting to fuck me are two separate issues.”

But in his mind, they are one in the same. See, what he meant was the one thing a woman doesn’t want to hear from her husband; the man she has chosen to be by her side for life, one of the very few people who could take any pain away. How do you begin to tell your wife that she is physically unattractive? It’s hard, I know, and there is no right way to say it. But he let these feelings simmer for almost two years, and in the process we lost an intimacy in our relationship we had always reveled in. It had been one of the things that, despite having other sex partners, I thought had not faltered between us. I had been blind of course. There were signs, and I kept ignoring them because I didn’t want to face the fact that it wasn’t like that between us. More that he wasn’t like that with me. To be honest, it was not the only time where he hinted at a problem with my weight, even going as far as stating that I am clinically obese and that I had to do something about it or… I had been devastated that day. Of all the words to hear, even about fearing my health, I don’t expect to hear that from my husband. But that day in late March cemented my fears.

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It took me two weeks to be able to function without bursting into tears. My own thoughts alone drowned me: Shouldn’t he love me no matter what I look like? What do we do now? Are we faking it? I don’t think we can be together if we’re just faking it…it’s not fair to either one of us…

Our frustrations culminated into an argument a block away from home, while I was taking a walk to calm my nerves and he just happened to be leaving for the gym. We took the shout match into our car, fogging up the windows in weather that was a toe away from full Spring. It broke my heart to know that once upon a time we would have sweated the windows with passion, not heated hateful words that bounced off the leather interior. I will do anything–help out more, clean the house, be a better husband–if you commit to losing weight! To which I asked So our marriage depends solely on me losing weight? He gripped the steering wheel tightly, clenched his jaw, and took a long pause before responding with I’ve said what I’ve had to say. I slammed the car door and went home, too pissed off to cry.

It took two weeks before I let him kiss me hello when he got home from work. Before I let him hug me or hold my hand without flinching or pulling away. All I kept thinking was he’s kissing me out of pity, despite him telling me he loves me for me, that has not changed. You’re the love of my life; the person I want to spent the rest of my days on this Earth with. But his body can’t help feeling how it feels. And I know that feeling too.

by BlackCatShooter via Deviantart.com

Since our monumental blow up, I have not pursued any new lovers. I had one in line and the two times we were supposed to meet were canceled due to personal circumstances and I think it was for the best anyhow. I rarely masturbate anymore, and if we were having intimacy issues before, it became worse. For three months I rebuffed him at every turn. We had sex about twice, and those times were extremely awkward for me and I’m sure for him too. I wasn’t even turned on, my saliva being my lubricant and replacing my natural wetness. I was merely performing wifely duties and then escaping to the living room with my vibrator to fantasize about other men, touching me the way I wish he would. The other times he approached me with intentions of having sex, I would deviate from his plans and give him a blow job instead, giving him the release he wanted and in return releasing myself from an encounter I didn’t want. The tables have turned and it was no intentional. I am little to none sexually interested in him or anyone else. Sometimes I feel disgusted with myself, other times with him. Why have sex with someone who was and continues to be a selfish lover? All he cares about is getting his and doesn’t give a fuck about me and my orgasm. I know all the moves by now, so really, what the fuck is the point?

His excuse is that we (me is who he really means) are restricted to two positions. I call bullshit. It’s been like this for years, before I got to this weight, before I even had our son. It was one of my reasons for seeking sex elsewhere: no more intrigue. I knew how sex was going to go down before it even began. Someone told me once that bad sex was better than no sex. I disagree. Why have bad sex if it’s going to be disappointing anyway? I’d rather not have sex at all and save myself the displeasure.

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It took two weeks before we could speak without shouting and actually have a discussion. The biggest issue was my weight, that’s true. But there were other things that he wanted me to work on and vice versa. Initially, I had been stubborn about losing weight because it felt like I would only be doing it to appease him and his sexual appetite, and I didn’t think that was a good enough reason. Still I had to admit that my health comes first and so does my family. I would be stupid to say I want to do anything I can to save our marriage and not try to lose weight if that’s something that will improve not only us, but me all around. 

It’s harder than I thought it would be, but I’m trying. He tells me that he is turned on by my efforts; he sees the changes I’ve made, not just physically, but in my spirit. Right now all I can say is that I’m making changes, positive ones. We’re trying. There is still love here and as long as there is, we will continue to work for it. Giving up on us is not an option we have decided to take.

-Scarlett

Untitled

“Untitled” is kind of how I feel at the moment. I don’t have a word or a line to express what is going on in my life and in my head right now. I had someone tell me I should just write, and of all the people I know the encouragement came from a person I thought I left behind in my past and in a heap of disheveled sheets; Alejandro. We haven’t had sex in almost three years, but we keep in touch every so often. While I have been going through what I would consider a transition in my life, he has given me some advice that I didn’t expect. The most poignant thing was for me to go back to writing.

Just write, he said. It doesn’t matter what it is. Just start and the rest will come eventually.

This isn’t all I have to expose of what’s been going on. This is merely an introduction of sorts. Because what I do have to say is embarrassing, sad, at times angry, revealing, sometimes selfish, and hurtful. But its true. All of it. And it feels like I need to rev my own engines and find some fucking courage because I know (and I hope I’m right about this because I’ve been so damned wrong lately) that I can’t be the only person going or has gone through this. Maybe, the reason I’m really doing this is to know that if I fall and put it all out there, I will land on some sort of internet safety net. That I’m not really alone, no matter how alone I feel.

Love, Scarlett

Sex in the Hospital or The time we were Ghosts

Back in February I wrote a piece about the time Henri and I had sex in a hospital. It was posted to wonderfully new site, Simply Sxy, which I have been meaning to share. Here it is, please enjoy! And if you needed tissues to finish reading this, then I am one happy lady!

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It was the summer right after graduating high school. I was newly 18, ready for college, and deeply in love with my boyfriend. We had been together for almost two years and in that time had sex in a handful of public places, from parks to museums to busses. But sometimes we tried to push further, merely because we could. However this time the August heat was a contributing factor.

If you don’t live in a big city, then you can’t imagine the kind of traffic a person runs into at 3 in the afternoon. Add extensive heat and every single human emotion flairs up like a hot air balloon and it has to escape somewhere, somehow. Luckily we were in a city bus that was merely sprinkled with riders. After initially content to escape the heat, the frigid air conditioner quickly chilled the bus as we waited in traffic and I huddled against my Henri for additional warmth.

But I never just cuddle.

My hands wandered inside his pockets, at a time when he only wore boxers and it made it so easy for me to play with him. I buried my nose into the nape of his neck and nibbled slightly, causing him to smile. My heart warmed to see that smile, and for me was always a sign of encouragement. I whispered to him all the things I wish I could do if no one was here; how lucky he was that I couldn’t strip him of his clothes right then and there; and how slick and wet I was thinking of the possibilities…

The bus pulls into the next stop and finally the road ahead of us is clear of cars for the remainder of the ride. We were on the way to see my doctor, but she was the last thing on my mind. The touching never stops, and we were so anxious to have a moment alone. Entering her office, I was unusually giddy, and my doctor took this as sign of my being completely smitten. Yes, I was completely in love. But I was also sticking to the wetness on my panties and sitting next to him, not being able to touch him as I wished, was an excruciating feeling. I had to keep my legs crossed while he was there, the sound of his voice and the heat he emanated kept the flow of wetness consistent. When he was asked to wait for me in the waiting room until the appointment, he softly kissed my lips and his voice dipped low and rough to say

“I’ll be waiting for you…” in that way that only he and I understood.

I was impatient. I was hormonally desperate to escape this place and go somewhere, anywhere for us to have sex. But where would we go? The sun was still too bright outside to discretely find a spot in the park. And by this time the bus would be over flowing with people. We always find a place…

After I was done, I crossed the hall to find Henri sitting quietly, flipping through an old magazine. We stood in what was supposed to be a children’s waiting room, equipped with its own half kitchen and half bathroom. For months it had remained unused in the middle of a supposed reconstruction. The blinds had been turned down, and in the darkness the toys and books left behind gave the room a creepy abandoned house feel. I wanted to leave, but I wasn’t in a rush to enter the heat again.

“Are we leaving?” He was just as uncomfortable with the appearance of the room.

“Hold on, let me go check my hair in the mirror before we go,” and I headed to the small bathroom. The tiny toddler toilet was emptied of water, and the privacy curtain lay limp to one side of the bathroom, attached by two metal rings. Unused waiting room chairs stacked on top of one another completed what could have been mistaken as a storage closet save for the small clearing that remained in front of the sink and mirror.

“Trust me babe, this place has looked a lot better—” my lip gloss fell and in bending over to pick it up, I saw Henri’s feet approaching.

“Do you like the view?”

I received a hard smack across my bottom as a response and I laughed when he grabbed onto my haunches and bucked himself into me. “Are you getting hard, baby?” I did my little girl impression, pushing into him, slowly gyrating my hips and feeling his bulge grow under his jeans. He unzipped his pants while he locking the door behind us. My shorts were hardly settled at my ankles by the time he shoved his cock into me. He thrust hard, rotating his hips in wide circles; I covered my mouth with my hand to stop myself from screaming as he stretched my pussy with each rotation.

We hear chatter and footsteps approaching the room. We were initially frozen, but he slowly continued, pulling far out and rotating his cock in tiny circles on the nub of my clit, then entering me slowly, reminding me in a muffled whisper not to make a sound.

We hear the two women retrieving items from the refrigerator. Henri was relentless with his tease, and in the mirror I could see a mischievous smile on his face and the warmth of a hand moving across my back side. His thumb rubbed circles on my anus, adding various points of pressure here and there, moans managing to escape the prison of my fingers.

I don’t know if the women were still there or not, but for a moment the sound of the world disappeared and all I heard was the sound of our heartbeats synchronized with the huffs of our breaths. He went faster and my cunt felt the expansion of his cock and his cum filling me inside.

“Oh my goodness, did you hear that?”

“What the hell was that?! Hello? Is someone here?”

The door handle jingled, but we remained silent. The beads of sweat falling from my temple and my heartbeat sounded the same while I stood bent over the chair.

“Hello?! Jeez Lisa, this room gives me the creeps!”

“I agree, let’s get out of here. I’m keeping my lunch in my office from now on…”

We heard the footsteps fade away and fixed ourselves, withholding our laughter until we were safely outside in the August heat.

“Did you enjoy being ghosts for a while?” I asked Henri as we waited for the bus that took me home.

“As long as I’m inside of you, I will be anything, anywhere.”

-Scarlett Dubois

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