I think of you a hundred times a day. I told you this recently and I swear you almost blushed. You have no idea how much I think of you, and you have no idea what I think of you.
So I will tell you.
Every day I say good morning to you. I remember the sound of you padding around with a cup of tea. I remember being naked and not caring one jot. Early in the morning I close my eyes and bring you to me. I wriggle my bottom at you and squeal when you slap it. I hide again under the sheets. I find you there and we kiss; it is a long, slow unhurried kiss. You kiss better than any man I have ever known. I know I will never kiss another man after you. I am quite ruined for other men.
I shower and then whilst naked and all pink and clean I choose my knickers. I think of your face as I show them to you. I can’t help it when we are together. I find you and turn my back and lift my skirt and show you. It is a risky procedure and often gets me a swat but I love it. I turn my back to the mirror and show my knickers in the same way, even if you are not there. I tilt my bum at you and then I look over my shoulder and grin. I can see you smile back at me.
I drive to work. I talk to you about rubbish. I tell you what I am worried about. I tell you what I dreamt about last night. I hold your hand in the car.
At work I think of you often. Just as in life, you catch me unawares. I think it is the incongruous nature of our relationship compared to my role at work that makes me think of you so often. My heels are high and my hair is tied back rather than up in a pony tail. I look just like a grown up and behave like I look.
Until, all of a sudden, you come to me.
I touch my desk and imagine myself bent over. My body is stretched forward over the cool wood, there is light but unyielding pressure on my breasts, and to my dismay, my skirt is lifted and rested on my back. Added to this is the humiliation of my legs being moved apart enough to ensure I feel completely exposed. I wait there for you.
I walk down a corridor and remember the sensation of walking towards you. I walk towards you in an airport and we kiss. I walk towards you late back from shopping, blushing at your stern face, and praying no one else knows what that face foretells. I walk towards you with a sinking stomach and a cane in my hands, held out for you with my eyes squeezed shut. I walk towards you for a cuddle and to sit in your lap. I walk towards you with something hopefully delicious on a fork for you to taste. I walk towards you in a sulk because you have my knickers in your pocket and my bum is swollen and red. I walk towards you because you say, “Come here.”
A thousand times a day I arrive in the spot you command.
I sit in a meeting, always the worst time as I try to focus. I am mindful and sensible, but then I lose concentration and in an instant you are slipping your hand onto the side of my breast and your thumb into my bra; it catches my alert nipple and I gasp.
I return to the meeting and do my best to remain in the appropriate moment.
But you return tenfold.
I am standing and you are standing behind me as I lean against you. I cling to your arm as your fingers walk along the edge of the waistband of my knickers, and I hold my breath in the age that it takes you to, so slowly and so deliberately, slip inside and move your hand lower. I rest my head back against your hard chest and close my eyes in shame and delight.
And back to the meeting I return. I focus on words, documents and ideas. I look around me and I check to see no one has noticed my absence. I make a contribution and it is considered perceptive and constructive. No one knows what I am in my mind.
Later at home, I bring a cup of tea to my seat on the sofa and I pretend it is for you, and the simple act makes you smile. I curl up in my seat and imagine you there.
In bed, I try to think pure thoughts, and I do most of the time. I curl my pillow up to be your chest. I hold you. I am held by you.
But there is a confusion of dreams, images and sensations. I am always bent over the back of the sofa. The back of the sofa is so high that my feet are lifted off the ground and they dangle. I kick as I feel the heated lick of your belt across my already stinging bottom. At the same time I can see you, shreds of you, through my hair that has fallen across my face. You stand resolute before me and slip your belt through the loops of your trousers, staring at my horrified face all the while. You whisper in my ear.
I will not tell you what you whisper; you know what it is.
There is more, much more, but I blush to tell you what you do to me in my dreams. I blush because you read my dreams, the ones I have never written that you know already. You told them to me before we met. And ever since then you have been whispering them to my ear, and I push myself into your arms to hide.
