Mistress, a light?
Awake from my lingering slumber. The navy bedsheets need a changing, but never.
The scent of her skin is still in my bed.
On my sheets.
In my hair.
I can't help but wonder what she's doing at this exact moment, especially laying there by myself this morning, alone and cold, simpering in the half-darkness of early morning, unravelling in my loneliness.
It's as if we're one star, brokwn in two magnificent pieces. I can't help but wonder what I would have ever done had I not found her, my other half, the missing piece, but there is an absolute void when she is not with me. It's almost as if she's possessed me, and I feel myself being chipped away at.
In the parking lot today after delivering her to work safe and sound, I watched her enter her building with suave sophistication, the opaque brilliance of her pantihose sheening as both legs, sturdy and limber like those of an Arabian steed's, each muscle flexing perfectly.
Beautiful, classic Christine.
Coming back to the apartment, I buried my head in the pillow she used here. Her scent is ginger and orange blossom, entertwined with Oriental powders and dewy toiletries. My mind can not tolerate this separation.
So I'm looking at photos of her now.
Posing stretched out on the bed, bound with that insecure nature that only the most fragile and beautiful women possess. A shy smile, a dedicated grin...
It's Tuesday morning and she is gone. I'll be waiting here until I hear her voice again. I can't understand why I need her so much.
It's almost as if we're the same star, like I said, but she shines so much brighter than I do.
The scent of her skin is still in my bed.
On my sheets.
In my hair.
I can't help but wonder what she's doing at this exact moment, especially laying there by myself this morning, alone and cold, simpering in the half-darkness of early morning, unravelling in my loneliness.
It's as if we're one star, brokwn in two magnificent pieces. I can't help but wonder what I would have ever done had I not found her, my other half, the missing piece, but there is an absolute void when she is not with me. It's almost as if she's possessed me, and I feel myself being chipped away at.
In the parking lot today after delivering her to work safe and sound, I watched her enter her building with suave sophistication, the opaque brilliance of her pantihose sheening as both legs, sturdy and limber like those of an Arabian steed's, each muscle flexing perfectly.
Beautiful, classic Christine.
Coming back to the apartment, I buried my head in the pillow she used here. Her scent is ginger and orange blossom, entertwined with Oriental powders and dewy toiletries. My mind can not tolerate this separation.
So I'm looking at photos of her now.
Posing stretched out on the bed, bound with that insecure nature that only the most fragile and beautiful women possess. A shy smile, a dedicated grin...
It's Tuesday morning and she is gone. I'll be waiting here until I hear her voice again. I can't understand why I need her so much.
It's almost as if we're the same star, like I said, but she shines so much brighter than I do.