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I see a message from him come through before I’m done with my thought, but I’m so eager to read what he said I go ahead and send mine.
RomanticSadistLL:
Oh, and that "Stuck with it now" is a bratty side of sub-flirting playfulness. Daring the "what you gonna do about it?” Just enough to be playfully bent over my knee, shorts pulled down, and spanked quickly, sharply, giving that cute little ass a handprint. Then your shorts pulled back up as you're given your feet again.
I clench so hard my eyes cross at the image he paints. I’m pretty sure I whimper too, but I can’t hear it, because my computer finally rebooted a while ago, and my music turned on through my headphones.
WillDive4Plants:
Note to self: start doing squats again to toughen up the booty, because I was the baby and only girl out of four, so I can't help when the bratty comes out. Got it, Sir.
I don’t remember what my question was going to be, Sir, so just take my previous message as a confession, I guess?????
RomanticSadistLL:
Then I thank you for the compliment
WillDive4Plants:
You're very welcome, Sir
I finally focus on my computer. Seeing my document on the screen, I snap a picture of it with my phone, sending him an excerpt of what I’d written last.
WillDive4Plants:
For when you're bored, Sir.
A message from him pops up, and then a couple minutes later, another one that makes me smile harder than I can remember ever smiling in my lifetime.
RomanticSadistLL:
But the answer to your unspoken question is simple and complex. There’s someone for everyone… or chemistry, pheromones. The "I don't know, there's just something about him."
Then I should allow myself time to be bored more often, little one.
The excerpt I sent him was the heroine telling the hero she finally had the energy to change out of her pajamas for the first time in three days. I always like to include bits and pieces of my real life in my stories, to let readers know they’re not alone in their struggles. I hid behind some of these things at first, embarrassed and scared what people would say about these “fictional” characters, but in a shocking turn of events, those were the parts so many of the reviews gushed about. People gave tearful responses to the books, saying how much they related to the heroines’ hardships and that they would continue to read my stories if I planned to be so inclusive when it came to characters with mental health issues.
I’m no longer embarrassed to admit my characters’ disorders or plights are ones I experience in real life, because nothing feels more validating and like I’m not alone in the world than these women—and a few men—writing me things like “I’ve never left a review before, but I just had to tell the author thank you from the bottom of my heart for writing a character I can actually relate to.”
WillDive4Plants:
Sounds vaguely familiar, something like "I changed out of my pajamas today,” doesn't it, Sir? ??
RomanticSadistLL:
I'm happy and impressed with the ease at which you are adapting to saying Sir. You have been practicing using the written form in your books. We will see if your lips form the words as well as your writing.
WillDive4Plants:
I've been training for this my whole life. I'm from a military town, Sir ??
RomanticSadistLL:
And I know there are days you don't change out of your pajamas, sweet girl. I hope you’ll give me the chance to help you see your true self-worth and that you deserve to spend time pampering yourself with more care.
I fight of the sudden urge to cry and read through our messages we’ve sent back and forth today. I haven’t spoken to any one person like this in ages. God, years upon years ago, as far back as when Art and I were dating. Even friends I’ve had throughout that time, or hell, family members to catch up with, it was always sporadic messages here and there. Nothing so in depth, where I was hanging on their every word, so eager for the next text to be delivered.
I don’t know how much time passes, but when my ass feels like it’s gone numb from sitting on the café bench seat, I glance at the time in the top right corner of my laptop, gasping and sitting up straight.
WillDive4Plants:
I have a request, seeing as it's apparently not going to happen otherwise, since I've now just read our conversation thrice instead of working, Sir.
I take a deep breath and type out my message. I try to be playful with it, but I hope so deeply that he’ll read into it and know what my request actually means.
WillDive4Plants:
Can you just like… tell me to go fucking write? ??
Even my Adderall doesn't stand a chance against you otherwise, Sir??
I bite my lip and cross my fingers, and I gulp as the dots on his side of the thread start to bounce while he types.
