Monday, February 16

Of An

WHEN SHE IS working out in the bedroom, I am prohibited from entering, but there is no cause for me to do so; regardless—‘Do you need anything from the bedroom?’ ‘No.’ She closes the door to begin her exercises. I retire to the sofa with my book and the sound of the washing machine turning, buttons scraping against the glass dome, the general quiet. The cats patter back & forth. I read my book and feel most content. I have brushed my teeth so there is mint on my breath. She makes not a sound when she works out, so that I am forced, if I so desire, to only imagine what she is up to. I would like to watch her, and have requested so many times, but she says it is quite out of the question. Instead, I read and pass my time like that – my own healthy occupation, or what-have-you.
After some time, she emerges. She is sprightly and flushed. She wears very tight clothing that hugs all of her body. The cats rush to greet her. I turn around on the sofa and ask how it went. She tells me that it went well, that she did an exercise that she thought was going to kill her. A kiss on the lips and she playfully rests her chin on my shoulder, asking me childish questions about what I am reading, what it’s about, who died. I show her the cover and nothing more. She goes over and starts to fiddle with a new purchase, some fashionable Swedish backpack that I see covering the spines of young people all over town. Now she has one. She is packing it for her next day at work. The backpack is black, of acute interest to one of the cats, Pippa, but unremarkable in all other aspects, to me at least, and I return to my reading.
Her profile to me, stood, reclined. I stare sidelong at her and notice the pump of her butt. It bubbles out from her tiny waist.
‘This bag!’ she says.
‘That butt!’ I say.
What use in resisting the urge? I mark the page, stand up, and walk over to her, behind, my body against hers. I take one buttock in each hand.
‘O, you actually got up for it…’ She sighs.
‘Yep.’
Just bigger than my hands, squeezing and rubbing, caressing, lost in delight! The fabric is smooth and as skin. She is still fiddling with her bag so I rub away, becoming aroused. I kneel down on the floor to ensure my eyes are level with the wonder and I squeeze and rub, caress; my hands symmetrically all over her butt. It is so perfect I cannot tire of it! I put my thumbs down to where her cunt is. I am very aroused to the point of pain and dreamily I imagine pulling the tight leggings off her, opening her up, running my tongue everywhere, the perspiration’s taste; an anatomical diagram of the tongue and each plain fluttering at the flavour of her butt. My sex is in pain. Fuller and fuller the fantasy becomes until I am consumed by it, close to spoiling my underwear—
‘Do you think you’re supposed to leave that there?’ She is holding the backpack up for me to see, pointing to some compartment or other with loose padding inside.
‘… I dunno.’
She walks a yard away, to the coffee table with her work’s notebook upon it and a red biro. They go into the backpack. Awkwardly I stand up, ashamed and embarrassed, pulling my sex up out of my jeans under my shirt so that it is less painful, and I sit back down to read.

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