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Getting up slowly and getting a chair I place it beside the bed, squaring my body posture to her, my torso and hips pointed right at her so I can focus on her and her alone, admiring her.
My adoration knows no bounds, my lips parting as I touch my face, feeling the tick in my cheek. I have to feel her, touch her, become one with her in all ways. Always.
Reaching out I brush her hair with two fingers, inhaling deeply at the feeling of her smooth locks, anchoring this memory in my mind forever as I release an appreciative sigh.
Without warning or reason, I twist a single strand of hair around my finger and yank it free.
She rolls over in bed, facing away from me as if she’s punishing me without even knowing it.
All those good feelings disappear in an instant.
Standing so quickly that the chair flies out from behind me I pace what little floor space I have.
“I just wanted a souvenir,” I repeat like a broken record, taking her strand of hair and placing it in the airtight, waterproof Pelican case I just received from Amazon yesterday.
Her behavior has angered me, and she needs to be punished. That’s not how this relationship is going to work. That’s not how we’re going to treat each other.
Moving back to the bed, my chest heaves as I try and catch my breath. My first thought is to yank my zipper down and stroke myself until I finish, covering her body with my D.N.A., marking her and reminding her who she belongs to, who she answers to.
Lust grips me as I arch my back, pressing my hips forward so my waist is closer to her body.
Pinching my zipper between my thumb and index finger I prepare to slide it down…but find my hand unable to do it.
Taking a wider stance I try and think of a different form of punishment. She doesn’t deserve me my come after what she just did. She needs to work for it, be worthy of it.
A golden shower?
A devious smile takes over my grill. No, because that would wake her and I’d have to clean my bed for days to get the urine out. Hurting her like that would only hurt me.
My breath quickens and a rush of adrenaline shoots through me when she repositions herself, this time her dress hiking up giving me a straight shot of her panties, her legs spreading wide.
I may be a lot of things, most of them bad, but I don’t put my hands on a woman who doesn’t specifically want it.
Turning my head I cover my eyes, move to the closet for a sheet and drape it over her midsection.
Then it hits me.
Dropping down to my knees I slide the oversized plastic box with the air holes punched into it out from underneath the bed.
“Hey there, Bojana,” I greet my boa constrictor. Her shed cycle is unpredictable, like most all snakes, but she’s giving a tell-tale sign of it now.
There’s a substance that lubricates the area between her old skin and her new, and it makes her eyes appear milky, blue, and even a bit opaque. She can’t see very well because of it, making her more defensive than she would otherwise be.
More prone to aggression.
More likely to…err.
Taking the lid of the box fills me with excitement, not knowing what Bojana will do.
I place her in the bed next to Erica, the weight of my six-foot-long snake substantial enough to make an indent in the mattress…before she wicks her tongue out and immediately moves toward my guest.
My boa goes right to her, sliding over her midsection and then starts wrapping around Erica’s legs.
I jump up and down and clap, then realize I’ve given Bojana too much power. I’m the one in charge here. Not Erica and not my snake.
Bojana can suffocate all the sexually predatory men I can bring home to her, but not my Erica.
Erica moves and I quickly slide my hand in between Bojana and Erica’s legs, but Bojana is not having it.
