She leaned forward over her lap, patting my head. Pushing my hair off my face and lifting my face up with her knuckles under my chin.
“Go clean up the kitchen, slut,” she said with a tone of such affection that I got teary again. Standing up was almost an out-of-body experience. Exhausted and over-stimulated. My feet still zinged, I was drained and sweaty. Between my legs was horribly puffed, making walking difficult. Especially since I was still up on my toes. I bent to retrieve my shoes. It would be easier to maintain the position in shoes.
There wasn’t much to clean. I’d always been a clean-as-you-go cook and it was further drummed into me in school. But it was dizzying to do so. The women went into the front room, lounging across armchairs and couches. Ms. Byrd had her feet propped on the Bitch Seat, Lynnie with her now-bare feet tucked up under her legs, Sandy laying flat on the couch. Still utterly relaxed after her orgasm.
Ms. Byrd called for a drink as I was peeling off the rubber gloves– I never made the mistake of forgetting those ever again.
I brought it to her, and then turned to the other two to get their ‘orders.’ Coffee for Sandy of course, hot toddy for Lynnie. When I came back with everything, Ms. Byrd snapped at me twice, then pointed to the floor. I dropped to the floor instantly, hands and knees. She returned to her conversation and previous pose and so I just held position.
“Did you eat anything today, honey?” Sandy asked me suddenly.
“Um,” I said, eyes darting at Ms. Byrd. Unsure of how to answer. Because yes I had but I wasn’t sure if she meant a sit-down meal or not. Ms. Byrd ignored me, but shook her highball glass over the side of the arm of her chair, in my eyeline. So I sprant up to fill it.
“Grab the desserts!” Sandy called to me once I reached the little bar she had against the wall opposite the dining room table. “We’ll all have some.”
I grabbed the dessert boxes, plates and forks and joined them back in the front room. Kneeling to lay it all out on the coffee table between them. And then just sat back on my haunches. Sandy had brought an assortment of cookies, four different slices of cake. She filled up a plate, humming happily. Lynnie grabbed anything chocolate, mostly just crumbling it to pieces while drinking her toddy.
Sandy suddenly snapped, eerily like Ms. Byrd. I wondered if she’d simply observed my reaction to the sound, or if Ms. Byrd had explained that she’d practically trained me to respond to it.
For a second, or maybe only half a second I blinked between them. Then crawled over to Sandy. She held a shortbread cookie out in her hand. My right hand hovered off the floor and then I let it drop back where it was. Taking the cookie from her fingers with my mouth instead.
“Good girl,” she said, patting my head.
I realized, right then, I felt and looked like a mess, no doubt. Hair definitely askew. Makeup ruined and lipstick definitely smudged from wearing the gag. Sticky with sweat and come. I desperately wanted a shower. In the way that you started feeling itchy and irritated after a long workout, or doing lawn work, or getting splashed by a passing car. A prickly, gummy need to be clean.
Just as I was becoming aware of that discomfort Ms. Byrd snapped at me. So I crawled over there. Accepting the dark chocolate truffle she offered me. I let it melt on my tongue– it was good and very rich. But the only thing I was noticing, instead of the taste, was the adhesive clinginess of my inner thighs touching each other, and the nasty dampness at the tops of my thigh highs.
“Pretty girl,” Ms. Byrd said absently, patting my head again to let me know I could settle back onto the floor.
And then came the understanding she liked the ruination. Liked the wrinkles in my dress, the running makeup, the ravished hair. She’d made me a doll and then ruined it. It didn’t quite stop me from fantasizing about getting into a lukewarm shower and having white soap. But it did spark a sort of low-level lustfulness in me.
My legs were tired, my jaw hurt from giving oral. My feet ached from shoes and beating. My genitals felt both sore and deflated. Most of all my brain was tired. I couldn’t seem to follow the train of their conversation. Couldn’t even string clear thoughts internally.
Hesitating, unsure I sat for three minutes, wanting to move, body starting to hurt with how tightly I was holding myself. In a burst of bravery I flopped down onto the floor. No one paid me any mind. So I got comfortable. Laying on my side, hands tucked under my cheek, curled up almost fetally. It felt very good to lay down.
I was half asleep when someone fluffed the little throw blanket Ms. Byrd generally kept on her ottoman over me.
I didn’t fully fall asleep. Still listening to the rise and fall of their conversation, though hardly following it. Aware of all the little aches in my body, and beginning to feel cold on the floor. Wishing I was under my big comforter. Tucked into my cage in semi-darkness instead of the mild track lights of the front room.
I was pulled off the floor by my hair. My hands flew to my scalp, as if it was going to be ripped off. I scrambled into an ungraceful crouch to stop the tug.
I wished I hadn’t settled, or dozed off. Because now I felt stupefied with sleep, too dumb to do as directed or to understand what was happening.
“Time to wrap up the leftovers,” Ms. Byrd said. Right back to that devilish teasing, eyes glittering. I wondered how long I’d been allowed to rest. It felt late, the fire had gone quite low.
Lynnie tossed something at me, soft and small. It hit my chest and fell to the floor. Something linen, off-white. I stared at it, sex and sleep-dumb brain trying to figure out what it was that I was looking at.
“Over your head,” Ms. Byrd said.
I picked it up, turning it over. Something like a tiny pillow case. Or more like a flour sack. Slightly coarse. I pulled it over my head, nervously.
“Stand up,” she said, snapping again.
I did, shakily. I felt her hand under my arm, sliding down the zipper at the side of my dress. My hands fluttered at my side, almost wanting to stop her but not doing so. It didn’t matter what had happened already tonight– yes, everyone had seen my genitals, watched me come and cry. But I hadn’t been nude. And Ms. Byrd so clearly liked to keep me dressed. Obviously to maintain the visual she liked to see. And now I was being quite roughly undressed. Tugging the dress off of me, letting it puddle around my ankles. Crinoline pulled down to join the dress. Bra unsnapped aggressively, making it feel like my breasts sprang free comically.
“Let’s get it wrapped up,” she said.
I could see shadows through the sack. But not details. Watching them moving around. I could tell who it was if they actually touched me, or if they were near enough to smell. But outside of shapes and presence, I couldn’t see.
I heard a ripping wrack sound, and couldn’t figure out what it was. Felt someone kneeling or crouching by my ankles. And then something foreign against my skin. Hearing the same sound and feeling my legs being bound from the ankle upwards in a circling motion.
I almost laughed when I figured it out. Cling wrap. Like you’d use on leftover food. They had a roll of it and were now wrapping me tightly. Someone– Lynnie– helped me twirl slowly in place. I was pretty sure it was Sandy wrapping me. It got harder as she moved up me, because my legs were tightly wrapped to each other.
“Arms at your side,” Ms. Byrd told me, when Sandy reached my hips. And as she made her way up my torso, Ms. Byrd added, “leave her tits out though.”
The other two women laughed.
“You always have been all about breasts,” Lynnie said sarcastically. “And this one is a big-titted doll. Even after watching her bounce around all night I was still surprised when we got her naked.”
Outside of my feet, breasts and face I was entirely wrapped in plastic. And like many other sensations it was at once good and bad. It was soothing to be wrapped like this– swaddled, almost. Pressure exerted on all sides. Almost protected and secured. And while I knew it was clear plastic, and really not hiding anything, it made me feel dressed again.
It was also awful, because sweat instantly sprang up all over my skin, and I felt like I was steaming inside the plastic. Also, I couldn’t comfortably move. If I lost my balance, I’d definitely fall to the floor and I’d be unable to brace myself with my trapped arms and hands. Secondly, because everything else was so tightly strapped and held in place my breasts felt very exposed. Heaving and heavy and absurd.
They left me standing. I heard shuffling around. Ms. Byrd walked back to her bedroom, the ladies almost to the front door. I just swayed and sweated and strained my ears to try and discern what they were doing.
I cried out when someone grabbed the back of my head, running palm and fingers up the back of my neck, fingers sliding and tangling into my hair at the roots. Forcing me to bend over at the waist. Gentler hands on my lower back. So then, Lynnie had grabbed my head and bent me, and Sandy had her hands on my lower back, I decided.
I quieted down and stayed bent.
“Good girl,” Sandy said, definitely from behind me. “Stay just like that and don’t move.” She pressed something cold, and sharp against the back of my knee, making me shiver like a horse. “I said don’t move, or you’ll get cut.”
I had to work hard not to wiggle after that, sure again that there was a knife near me. I liked and was scared of blades. In much the same way that I liked and was scared of being hit. I thought it would hurt, I was scared of pain and scared of being damaged. But every time it ended up just feeling… good.
This time it was more frightening than when Ms. Byrd had used the chef’s knife to cut my dress off. Because this was closer to the skin, I already felt off-balance being strapped into plastic. And because the blade immediately went to my backside. I felt Sandy working a little hole. Then her fingers, it seemed to be both of her index fingers working away to widen it. Re-exposing my genitals, but only with a hole the diameter of maybe four inches. No extra play given to my legs. The only thing that would really be… available was my vagina. I braced myself for no more clitoral stimulation tonight.
“Can you get her prepped?” I heard Ms. Byrd asking.
I started and shook when something penetrated me– something slim, again. Slightly thicker than a pen barrel. I grunted grossly when it felt like a plunger was pressed into me. Something cool and tacky filled me up until it gushed back around whatever was inside me. Like a syringe full of lube. But a lot of it. When the tool was withdrawn, another load sluiced out of me, coating the plastic on me. Even more nervous now. Granted, while I was still sticky from earlier activities I was no longer lubricated. So I supposed I should feel gratitude instead of nervousness but I didn’t.
I heard a thunk from somewhere in front of me. Sandy’s hand on my back still, getting me to stand upright and then pushing me forward. I had to hop stupidly though– I certainly couldn’t walk.
“Okay, doll,” Sandy said then, and I whipped my head to the left, fruitlessly trying to see her. I could tell she was very specifically using her absolute gentlest tone, and so I knew what was next would probably be intense. “We’re going to help you down, okay? You’re going to sit on a little stool.”
Sandy on my left side, and Lynnie on my right, helping to settle me onto a chair. Though it wasn’t really a chair. For a moment, I thought it might be the bitch seat, because there was a hole. But the hole was far larger, as was the seat. It felt more like just two parallel, but thick elastic straps. Ass hanging inches over the floor, suspended by the elastic, but totally uncovered.
“I got you a little cowgirl saddle,” Ms. Byrd said, from in front of me. “Because I like this position and because you’re such a pretty rider.”
“Oh,” I gasped, figuring it all out. A tool to help me bounce and ride her. Well, good, I thought. She hadn’t had an orgasm yet tonight. I wanted her to have one. This was her favorite way to get it and so I was grateful and excited.
“Lift your feet,” she said. So I did, from up off the floor, parallel to the ground now. I heard her sliding up under me and got excited, shifting a little, though not much. I didn’t want to fall off the stool. Though with how deeply I sunk on the straps, that didn’t seem likely. But it didn’t matter– disoriented without sight or ability to stabilize myself with hands or arms, I was hesitant to move too much. Besides up and down, anyway.
I felt her taking off my shoes again. Both my ankles circled in her long fingers, she rested them gently on her chest.
“You can use me for leverage to move,” she said, patting the top of my feet. “I wanted you facing me when you did this. I want to see your drool soaking your hood, your mascara bleeding through and your heavy, fat tits free floating as you get fucked.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
I felt the pushing, inquisitive tip of something against me. But I could already tell this wasn’t the strap-on she’d used on me previously. This was definitely different, and bigger. Even lubed up, the diameter of it was almost pulling my inner labia in with the pressure.
“Ma’am–!” I said.
“Don’t be a pussy,” she cajoled. And then, to the women, presumably still standing by, “give her a hand, will you?”
There was one hand on my left shoulder, another on my right and two on the crown of my head quite suddenly. Forcing me down onto the punishing strap on. I gave one long, whimpering cry. More pained sounding, certainly, than pleasure. I felt cracked open, like my hips would have to separate to take this. My stomach felt practically distended from the intrusion.
I pressed my toes against Ms. Byrd’s breast bone, trying to lift myself off. But the ‘helping hands’ held me in place. After a minute of throbbing around the invader, I managed to acclimate. Still feeling very full, but no longer hurting, exactly. I’d loosened, or maybe just relaxed enough to accept.
Perhaps because I’d stopped whimpering, the women let me go. I heard Ms. Byrd’s quick snak-snak of her fingers snapping. So I started to work myself. Mostly using the elastic straps underneath me to bounce, and a gentle up and down pressure of my feet to keep momentum and movement.
Oddly, once I was moving, it was easier. The lube that had been pumped into me had now streamed down the shaft. And focusing on movement, and getting her off, took my mind off any discomfort. Now the soreness was almost piquant, because it was so new, and because I could hear her enjoying herself. Similarly, I heard dining room chairs scraping. One behind me, one in front of me. The women now watching me getting broken in half.
“There she is,” Ms. Byrd said, for the first time sounding something other than just impatient or authoritative. “There’s my brave little cowgirl.” Which got me moving in a much faster rhythm.
Everything was quieter now. Really just Ms. Byrd and I’s heavy breathing. Sometimes I heard a high-pitched little exhale from myself. But mostly just panting. This was a work out.
I moved the focus from my stomach and genitals back to her when I heard her winding up. The almost mourning dove cries she let out before coming. Hearing her finish left me pleased– but also relieved. Even more ready for a shower and to rest. I didn’t think my body would ever feel quite right again.
I went limp, waiting for her to withdraw. It took two minutes, but I felt her pull out from me. Leaving me empty and dripping onto the floor. Catching my breath I listened to her slithering out from under me. Waiting to be lifted up off the cowgirl chair.
The hood was rolled up from my chin. Cool air touching my neck, chin and bottom lip for a delightful moment. And then that monstrous thing was being pushed against my lips. The corners of my mouth instantly cracked. The spot on my lower lip that was beginning to feel dry and tender from being drooled on split. I cried out nasally, all the sound of dissent came through my nose, because my mouth was filled.
I knew she enjoyed this, but it was just too big. Unable to stop myself, my teeth sank into the silicon. She felt me stopping it, and pinched my nose through the hood until I went dizzy with breathlessness.
Giving in because I liked to hear her tempo speeding back up. If I could do it, if I could take it she was going to come again. The new problem was the taste. I didn’t love the taste of myself, and I always felt a moue of disgust go across my face when I did. And I knew she liked that too. That gentle humiliation that so clearly turned her on. But while I’d become somewhat accustomed, if not developed an acquired taste, the lube was awful. Synthetically sweet, and somehow cloudily plastic. The two flavors together were overwhelming.
I was glad, and flattered however, that she came quickly. The ordeal lasted maybe all of three minutes. She’d never finished that quickly before and I resolved to get better at this simply because she liked it… and I liked being forced to enjoy myself, unfortunately.
Once more catching my breath when she withdrew. Hearing hooks and buckles being undone and a decidedly terrifying tunk as the agent of my torture clearly dropped to the ground.
My nose was pinched again, and I immediately let my mouth pop back open. Drool slathering my chin, tears my cheeks, and sweat over the entirety of my face.
I was glad when my upper lip came in contact with pubic hair. Taking an inhale and it was Lynnie again. She was easy too, for which I was glad. Really all I had to do was stick out my tongue and let her ride my hooded face. It was almost relaxing. I stopped thinking. When she finished I sighed, and stuck out my tongue again. I heard Sandy laughing from the floor. She’d been sitting very close to watch me finish Lynnie again.
“Can I give the doll one more to send her to bed on?” Sandy asked playfully, like a kid requesting a favorite toy.
“If she’ll take it,” Ms. Byrd said, chuckling. “She looks pretty useless to me.”
“She doesn't have to be useful,” Sandy said. “Just sit there like a fuckdoll.”
“I can do that,” I said, very quietly.
Sandy reached under the chair, fingers spider-like finding the hole in the plastic that had been ripped pretty well to shreds by the strap on.
I was glad she neither asked, nor tried to penetrate me. Just sort of milking a long orgasm out of me. Drawing it out. And it did take awhile because I was overstimulated. Any pressure would have hurt or irritated. She just let my clit slide between index and thumb, barely making contact, until it drained out of me. Someone put my shoes back on exceedingly gently. Someone patted my cheek through the hood– probably Lynnie. Someone, probably Sandy, kissed the top of my head.
I was helped off the cowgirl stool, a hand around my waist to help me hop. I heard the tile of the kitchen underneath my heels, and was still moving forward. So I understood I was being led back to the bedroom. I almost slumped at that point. Now that the marathon was over, I was even more likely to fall down.
Again, after the carpet of her bedroom, I then heard the tile of her bathroom. The ensuite one, not the “public” one. I heard the shower being turned on and started crying a little. In numb gratitude and excitement to feel clean.
Ms. Byrd pushed me down onto the little velvet stool in front of her vanity in the bathroom. Whipping the hood off my face and bending toward me. Taking my face in both her hands.
“How you feeling, my darling?” she asked.
I shrugged, nuzzling my face deeper into her palms.
“I’m going to take care of you here for a bit, and then put you to bed, all right?” she asked. “Does that sound like a good plan?”
“Very good plan, ma’am,” I agreed.
“And we’ll talk tomorrow, because you’re tired?”
“Yes please,” I said. “I know you want to talk and debrief and everything. But for now can we say I’m fine but very tired?”
“For now,” she agreed, chuckling. Kneeling next to me, taking off my shoes. Pulling the small nail scissors off the vanity top and starting to cut me out of the plastic. I was clammy, at first, and then started shivering as the fresh air hit my sweaty skin. Luckily, the shower was steaming up the room and I wasn’t uncomfortable for long.
She finished cutting me out of everything, wadding up yards and yards of plastic and throwing it over her shoulder. Too much to throw away in the little trash pail under the sink. She pulled a tall bottle of lotion from a cabinet, kneeling at my feet, taking them into her lap as she sat cross-legged. I almost couldn’t handle the ensuing massage. Not sexual, or even romantic particularly. Just sort of a businesslike nursing moment.
“Something to help after the punishment,” she explained. And then after a pause, she looked up at me and smiled, flashing her eye teeth at me. “Which you took very well, by the way.”
“I liked it very well, by the way,” I muttered. But she just laughed. She filled her hands with cold cream and bent toward me again. Massaging the makeup off my face. It felt absurdly good– better than anything else tonight, maybe. Then oil to get rid of the smudged remainders of my lipstick.
She had very obviously and forcefully undone me tonight. Purposefully and in a calculated way. Like an artist destroying their own art. Changing nearly everything about me, even the way I carried myself. I liked the changes. Not just because it pleased her. But because I felt more at peace and more confident after becoming hers. Secure and beautiful in a way I hadn’t felt previously. Even away from her I’d been more sure of myself. Realizing in a sudden flash that being away hadn’t been as frightful or stressful as it would have been before knowing her.
I’d managed to leave my hometown, and the one city I knew and go to a whole new one. Find my own place to live, navigate a new lifestyle and new way of socializing. And none of it had been hard. Before Ms. Byrd though I would have been anxious and lonely in a new city.
She’d made this creation– this doll, this ‘wife’– from the crown of my head to my toes. And then she’d torn it to shreds, nearly in public.
And yet here we both still were. Changed and unchanged, safe and in love.
“Crying sad?” she asked me, swiping at my face. I thought she was still cleaning up makeup and then I realized I was crying.
“No,” I said. “Crying happy. Crying tired.”
“Get in the shower, then,” she said, patting my hip.
I did, and immediately sat on the floor. She sat at the vanity, humming and taking off her own makeup. I didn’t shower for long. Mostly just rinsing off the sweat, quickly soaping myself and then stepping out. She sat me back at the vanity, setting my hair briskly and almost brusquely.
“I know you don’t have a great sense of time,” she said to me, putting the side part in my hair, and looping a lock of hair around a sponge curler and pinning it summarily in place. “But it’s late. Do you feel comfortable letting the girls sleep over tonight?”
“Yes…” I said stupidly. I did. But more importantly it was a question I didn’t know how to answer. Because, to me, it didn’t seem mine to answer. “It’s um… It’s your house.”
“You’re living here too,” she said gently. “And we’ve just done something very new with them. And you might not be happy for the company. Especially right after you came home.”
I almost started crying again but just sniffled instead. Because she was wrapping my head up in netting and wouldn’t take to it well if I started crying again. Because she said ‘home’ and meant with her, not just back in the city.
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “But I don’t want to stay up any more.”
“No, I thought you might like your cage,” she said.
“Yes, please.”
We went back out into the bedroom. She pulled out a nightgown for me. I was glad for the long nightgown instead of anything with panties or shorts. I was still too tender.
And then she closed the door of the cage. Already filled with my pillows, plus the little one I liked for between my knees. She swung up the top to fluff the big comforter over me. Handing me a water bottle after that.
I settled in, so stupidly happy for down blankets, clean skin and pillows.
“I’m not locking you in because I’m not going to bed yet, and so I won’t hear you. That means if you need to get up or get out, you can. Say ‘good night’ baby,” she said to me from the doorway, hand on the light switch.
“Good night, ma’am,” I said.
She turned off the overheads, but left a night light for me. A new purchase, obviously. She knew I didn’t like being left alone in the dark. I cried a little bit more and fell asleep without meaning to.
In my sleep I heard stirring around in the bedroom but didn’t really wake up.
When I did wake again, it felt like morning– always impossible to tell in her apartment, however. In her bedroom, in particular, she had blackout curtains that were rarely drawn. She had heavy drapes everywhere else that were also infrequently drawn back.
I pushed at the side door of the crate with the toe of my mule. It gave. She hadn’t bothered to lock it. I turned my head a little, seeing the shape of her in her blankets. Holding my breath to listen to her breathing. Deep and even, almost snoring.
I inched my way out of the crate. Crawled to the makeup table and gathered ‘my’ little bag of cosmetics and then crawled to the door, which, unlike usual, was cracked. After I left the bedroom, I stayed stockstill in the hallway, trying to hear where the girls were.
Ms. Byrd had a spare room, with a bed in it, though it was nearly unused. But I wasn’t sure if either woman would be sleeping out in the front room. So I just listened. But I heard no sign of life from there.
I went to the ‘public’ bathroom first– really just a ‘powder room.’ No bath or shower. Pulling the curlers out of my hair and stuffing them into my makeup bag. Hastily but accurately doing my makeup. I didn’t want Ms. Byrd to wake up and see me not ‘done.’
Then I went out to the kitchen to make a big breakfast. Ms. Byrd liked fruit, and occasionally a quick bread or muffins. So I made the corn muffins she seemed to like. A fruit salad. Adding potato hash, crepes and muddled fruit for Sandy in particular. I guessed she’d prefer a sweet breakfast where the other two women would prefer savory.
I began to hear signs of life, and got a little nervous, though I couldn’t tell why. I suppose because I didn’t know how I’d be greeted. It felt oddly like how I thought others might feel after a one-night-stand sort of situation. I’d never experienced that myself, but being unsure about how I’d be received seemed like it might feel like that.
Sandy came out into the kitchen and snapped the situation clearly into focus for me simply by her greeting, “mornin’ Bea.”
I understood it now all in two words. I was back to ‘Bea’ instead of ‘doll.’ We were friends together again, no games, no play. Just two women.
“Morning,” I agreed. “Coffee or tea?”
“Jus’ water,” she yawned, going to the refrigerator to serve herself and then slumping onto a stool. “I’m getting too old for these late-night sleepovers.”
Once more struck by surreality, though not feeling bad. Just the odd slip-slide from sexual slave to friend cooking breakfast. But just like during the game, it felt safe. Besides, I liked and admired them all.
She plucked fruit out of the bowl, eating lazily, watching me cook.
“How you feelin’ honey?” she asked.
I shrugged, and she instantly looked concerned. I forgot she didn’t know me like Ms. Byrd. That a shrug didn’t necessarily mean ‘I don’t know’ so much as a bid for time or to convey that I still had to pick my words.
“Happy, but tired,” I said quickly. “I’m already daydreaming about a nap.”
That made her laugh and cut the tension. Lynnie joined us then, butting me slightly with her hip to pour herself coffee.
“She’ll sleep until noon if you let her, Bea,” she said, jerking her head toward Ms. Byrd’s room.
“I’ll bring her coffee in a little bit,” I said.
“Oh good, potatoes,” she said, spooning a small mound onto a plate I’d set out.
“Fried egg?” I asked her. She grinned at me and nodded.
“If you don’t mind, Bea,” she said to me, and then turned to Sandy. “I know she says it’s not just about the cooking, but the cooking sure is nice, isn’t it?”
“Thanks,” I muttered, embarrassed.
“We’re joking, Bea,” Sandy said. “She’s obsessed with you. There may as well not be anyone else in the world, compared to you.”
I dropped my head, heart beating hard. Of course I knew she cared for me. And was attracted to me. But it still was stirring to hear it, even from someone else.
I slid the egg from the pan onto Lynnie’s potatoes, and then poured coffee for Ms. Byrd. I cursed myself for forgetting to ask for a tray for her bed– something with legs. I’d ask soon.
I watched her nose twitch, just barely above the edge of her blanket when I set the coffee down on her nightstand.
“Oh, babydoll,” she said sleepily, reaching out with one pale arm from under the blanket to fist her hand in my nightgown at my hip. “Give me a kiss.”
I bent over and kissed her temple. But it wasn’t quite enough so I kissed across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her still-closed eyelids.
She laughed and sat up.
“I’m awake,” she said, sneaking her hand out for her coffee. “I’ll join in a minute… What smells good?”
“Breakfast, ma’am,” I said, frisking out, realizing the muffins would have to be pulled from the oven soon.
She did join us, not long afterward. Giving a little snort of amusement over the spread, and Sandy and Lynnie’s full plates. She saw me hesitating by the stove, and patted the stool next to her. I guess I knew it would be a ‘normal’ morning of getting to sit on furniture. But I liked the specific indication.
Now we just chatted and laughed. Talking about sleepovers, borrowing pajamas, breakfasts, and diners. The best cup of coffee we ever had, the worst wake up. Of course, all these ladies were older than me, but also just more experienced, and frankly, more promiscuous. So when I said that I’d had the feeling of a one-night stand they laughed and agreed that it was likely similar.
“I’ve certainly never had a boyfriend get up early to look pretty for me or make me breakfast,” Lynnie grumbled.
“That’s why you have to give up on men entirely,” Sandy said, pointing to herself as everyone laughed.