“What are you going to do today?" He was already on his way out, tying his
“What are you going to do today?" He was already on his way out, tying his tie as he headed for the door. She shrugged. She hadn’t figured it out yet. That was part of the allure of the holiday. "I’ll probably masturbate.” She smirked. He arched an eyebrow. She sighed. “Ok, I probably won’t.” The eyebrow stayed up. “Definitely won’t! Jeez.” He smirked. “That’s my favourite slut.” She flushed, looked down. He planted a kiss on her forehead and headed out. The first hour was bliss. She lost her underwear within ten minutes, cast aside like a sweet wrapper, and the cool air against her nudity was liberating. She watched some tv, ate a bowl of cereal, and lightly fondled her chest while it switched from morning news to daytime chatshows. One of them started talking about gay rights and she rankled, turning to tell him exactly why they were bigoted arseholes, and exactly why the country was going down the shitter, and… he wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. He’d gone to work. She was on holiday. Work was an escape. Not from him; not in the slightest. Work was an escape from missing him when he wasn’t there. Work was her way of occupying her mind with meaningless drivel that was just enough to keep her distracted from the fact that it was more than a few hours before he would get home. Work was a refuge. And without it, she was going to be left to her own devices, unarmed against the onrush of missing. It was an onrush. A great wave of need and want that washed over her, caught her up in it and knocked her from her feet. She wanted him here, to joke with, feel the power of. She wanted his hand on her shoulder, around her neck, lightly pressed against her chest. She wanted the presence of him, to savour it and enjoy. The house was empty, not even filled by her meagre form. It was like an out of body experience, except she felt out of the building, detached and looking in through a window, staring at the dereliction. Well fuck. -- source link
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