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So deep and high in it that I feel him in my tummy.
And I touch my tummy every chance I get.
I also check my phone every chance I get.
Because for a guy who hates texting, he likes to text me a lot. Throughout the day in fact. And you’d think that they’re all dirty texts but they’re not. Some of them are just random texts about what he’s doing at the time. Like reading a file for his brother that makes him want to kill himself. Or a photo of his brother looking like a million-dollar man at a very boring meeting.
And other times he likes to give me commands and yes, they are dirty.
Like eating my lunch without my panties. Or asking me to go up into my room while I’m cooking dinner for everyone and make myself come. And then send him proof of my wet fingers. And then sometimes he asks for photos of my braid, my pink dresses, my pink-painted toes.
And then he’ll call me randomly just to hear my voice.
Or just to hear me breathe even.
I save all his texts, all the pictures that I ask him to send in exchange for all the pictures he asks. A photo of his big strong hands, the buttons of the shirt that he’s wearing, what he’s eating for lunch, his hair. I even make him wear a tie one day and have him send me a picture of that, and he makes me send him a picture of my bare tits in exchange for putting him through the torture.
Anyway, it feels like a relationship, doesn’t it?
It feels like something a girlfriend would do for a boyfriend and vice-versa.
Although my previous relationship was nothing like this.
I wasn’t always glued to my phone, checking and waiting for another text to come through. I wasn’t always walking around with a heightened sense of awareness of my own body, my own breaths, my heartbeats, a desperate fucking ache in my chest.
And I definitely wasn’t into giving surprises.
Which I do, at his gym.
The same one where I found him fighting.
He doesn’t fight anymore but he does go there regularly, every day in fact, to work out after work.
And while I know nothing about working out and all, I do know that it takes a tremendous amount of energy, so I bring him this shake that I whipped up. And I have to say he looks totally surprised.
Not only by me but also by the shake.
“You made that,” he rumbles, panting, staring at the mug I’m holding out.
It’s hard to talk right now, or even think, because he’s gloriously naked. Well, half naked. At some point during the workout he must’ve torn off his gym t-shirt, which is now lying discarded on the floor where he was bench pressing horrible-looking weights when I’d walked in.
So for a few seconds, all I can do is watch his tightened muscles, rippling and twitching with his rapid breaths.
Oh, and sweat.
So much of it, dripping down, pooling everywhere.
Then, gathering myself, “Uh, yes.”
“For me,” he says, his voice even more rumbly and his eyes more intense than before.
“Yes.” I swallow, still holding it out.
In response, he simply stares at me, his mouth parted, his body still feeling the aftereffects of his workout but slowly coming down from it.
I bring the mug to my chest and hug it, blushing.
Maybe I overdid it.
