bendingsubmission: She thought it was a picnic. Chose the sundress and left nothing beneath for the
bendingsubmission: She thought it was a picnic. Chose the sundress and left nothing beneath for the ride. His hand wandered in the car, but not where she wanted it. This frustrated her, but she said nothing, assuming more would occur on the blanket. The isolation of the spot he had chosen made walking in heels difficult. It also confused her, until she uncovered the basket. Just rope and two bottles. One wine. One scotch. Over the next six hours she would become very familiar with that tree. The way it felt against her skin when the dress was gone. How the bark comes off if she claws it hard enough. The way wine tastes different when she’s parched and it mixes with the scent of the tree. How unforgiving that bark is when she’s grinding against it, involuntarily. The slight indentations would remain in her skin until the next morning. She’d spend the ride home running her trembling fingers over them, with a vastly expanded understanding of what constitutes a picnic. -- source link