Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I hate the rule I made in the beginning. It haunts me now. It's a constant block between the two of us. I was angry at her for the longest time because of how fake she was. Because she wouldn't allow herself to be who she truly could be. But now I'm the fake one. I'm the one not acting how I know I should be acting.
I shouldn't be obsessed with her. I shouldn't continue to lie asleep at night, listening to her breathe. I shouldn't be wishing for more. I shouldn’t wake up on the nights that I manage to get a little sleep with a smile on my face at the sounds of her snoring. There are a lot of shouldn’ts in my life right now but thinking I never should have taken her, isn't one of them.
I’m content right now but I'm not happy. I hate that there are no real conversations. I hate the silence constantly between us. I hate having things to say but being unsure of how they will be received. I hate that I think of her before I think of myself. I've never been this way before.
It's not all bad. The conversations we do have are simple. They're not heavy and weighed down the way conversations I've had in the past were.
She no longer acts shy about her body. She no longer lifts her head high in defiance. Her fake it ‘til you make it moments are few and far between. I don't know if it's habit or if it's what she needs when she climbs in the shower in the mornings and her hand runs between her thighs before she even touches the bodywash. Her orgasms don’t seem routine.
It's the times she pulls the dildo from the dresser and sets it up on the table herself that appeal to me the most. It's still its own form of torture and her taunting was right that first time. I do imagine it's me that she's sliding down. I do imagine that I'm the one inside of her. To keep myself from taking what I want, I've convinced myself that it's only a matter of time and that she's also wishing it was me.
But neither one of us has caved. I took her but I can't take that, and she’s not to the point of asking for things to change just yet. I’m biding my time with the hopes that eventually she will. That she will slide that hot, juicy cunt off of that black dildo and crawl up the bed and slide down on top of me. My only worry is that they'll find her before I can.
There are times just the pounding of her feet on the treadmill echoing through the house gets me hotter than I've ever been in my life. But then again, everything about her turns me on. My appeal for her is endless. She can do the exact same thing every single day, and I'm still in awe of how amazingly sexy she is.
I can’t count how many times I’ve waited on the bed for her, with that dildo suction cupped to the table, waiting for her. I groan as I run my hand over my head, making my way into the kitchen. That's what happened this morning. I waited for her to finish her run. She didn't hesitate for a second when she walked inside with her skin glistening from sweat. She watched me with a devious smile on her face and she straddled the toy and got to work. Once again, I came without touching myself, like I always do.
I discovered it leaves me wanting more, but not always in a sexual way. Sometimes I can't fight back those urges. Sometimes I stroke myself off in the shower, painting her with my cum. But I also wish she'd open up and tell me about her life. I'd like to know what her childhood was like. I wonder if it's different from the way I've pictured it in my own mind. I don't ask because I don't want to reciprocate.
I’ve never felt shame about my past, my history, and the childhood I suffered from until her. Before it was a badge of honor, the things that I had survived. I have no doubt telling her about the real me would make her sad. It would make her pity me. I need a lot of things from Raya Reed, but compassion isn't one of them.
Lunch is going to be simple today. Turkey sandwiches, her favorite kind of chips. I toast the bread of her sandwich because she mentioned liking crispy bread at one point. “Goddammit,” I grumble, dropping the hot bread to the plate, the tips of my fingers a little sore from pulling it out of the toaster oven too soon.