The things I would do for you

I have little desire to write right now. I wanted to tell you about the flight back to Europe, and how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, I wanted to tell you about the double penetration and the multiple squirting orgasms, the bruises on my breasts and early morning fingering, but I can’t. Because all of those things I just mentioned, plus the jetlag thats been dragging out for the past week, and general fatigue and frigid temperatures have brought on one hell of a bladder infection and I am just exhausted. Nauseated and anxious and exhausted.

In the mean time, I give you this, from him, kitty, grandma:

Does not fucking you last night qualify for “behaving myself”?  Does fucking you in the ass a few nights ago _not_ qualify?  How about evoking the Amrita and a vaginal orgasm?  A good grandma would praise the boyfriend for that at least.  And I think if your grandma knew about the phenomenon and how it feels, deep down she would approve, although she might never admit it.

greetings, sort of

 

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From: grandma
To: kitty
Date: Fri, 20 Jan 2006 21:52:10 EST

Hi,
I sent your books off last Tuesday.  Hope you’re not freezing to death.  It has been pretty cold here, but no snow to speak of.  Tell *, Hello, and to behave himself.  I go for my preop exam Monday.  My mammogram came back negative for which I am thankful.

Love,
Grandma

My darling,

Talking to you can be excruciating. I can’t spend the limited time I have on the phone with you talking about her, and how crazy she is and how manipulative she has become and what the lawyers are conspiring to do and how the forensic accountant is going to hold your papers from Berlin. I can’t do it, as curious as I am. My body tells me these conversations are poison.

Why don’t I stop you? You bite your tongue when you catch yourself and insist I interrupt when you begin but some how all that I do is get tense and nauseous and despairing and allow you to continue. Why am I punishing myself like this? Do I feel guilty loving you? Do I feel that I don’t deserve you and must punish myself for it? Is it just an ugly habit now? Or am I wallowing in self-righteousness and voyeuristic pleasure watching her deperate attempts to defend herself.

I tell you this: it makes me jealous to know that she is playing the good wyfe and making dinner every night. Don’t tell me how good the soup was. Don’t tell me your child had two bowls. Don’t fucking tell me you made the salad and the lemon cake she baked was tart just like you like it. It doesn’t help that you say it is all a farce. It doesn’t help.

I can make it to May, living with you in our little european fantasy bubble, but if this farce goes on for much past that, I will take my thirty-one inch suitcase and my three shot espresso maker and plant myself somewhere else. Far from you and your mess that you can’t seem to get out of fast enough for my taste. Let me remind you that I was doing just fine before you came along. There were men who told me they were lucky to know me, men that tied me up and held me down and made me wetter than I have ever been, men that would drive for hours to see me one last time, then fly to europe to see me once again. Maybe it won’t be the same on the other side without you, but it will be just fine.

I choose you, and sometimes I don’t know why,

kitty

“It’s six am in Central Europe,” he said, “early enough for a leisurely fuck before I go to work.” Yes, my love, but I am here and you are there and it will be one more week before we touch like that if things keep going like they are.

Tonight Granny started a fire for me out in the computer room thinking I would go out there to work on the thing-that-shall-not-be-mentioned (way-overdue writing for the degree that shall not be named). What do I do? Spread out an afgan by the wood stove, stack some pillows, access the garage next door to retrieve the toys I left in storage for my GMT +1 hiatus, and proceeded to stick things inside me that haven’t seen my tender parts in months. A little thrilling, a little shameful. Had to pull the shade on the far side of the room so the neighbors wouldn’t see, and checked the view from the cabin so Granny wouldn’t get a heart attack. I’m really desperate to take the toys inside, especially the vibrating butt plug, but afraid of the noise it will make, not to mention that the floors reverberate whenever I pull out the little purple bunny vibe. Maybe tomorrow, while she’s at church…

Things are desperate here. I thought I would see him on Thursday, but it never happened. I thought maybe Monday would work, but again, no. Hopefully something will come up, so that he can have an excuse to escape and see me. We both have too much work before we return but I’m aching to be with him. Having fantasies of getting loose on red wine and hole-in-the-wall Thai, and then screwing myself down on his cock. I’m dying to lean over him, trace my nipples over his chest, and lick his mouth like it is the most succulent pussy in the world. I want to see the expression on his face after he slaps me, feel his grip on my tits, his fingers in my mouth. I have little desire for others, but the mustachioed neighbor is creeping into my fantasy world. Sometimes I think I can hold out forever and sometimes I can’t wait another day.

Eating too much: High desert sushi

Drinking too much: black tea, milk and sugar

Reading too much: the Sibley Guide to Birds

Fucking too much: no! not at all!

Today he told his children he is getting a divorce. The response was a bit peculiar.

because the pocket rocket isn’t as quiet as it used to be. And what is the problem, sweetheart, that when I try to provoke you into a little dirty talk over the phone you don’t respond? “Under or over the panties, darling?” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck I’m frustrated.

It’s starting to snow here in the mountains and I only hope I’ll be able to get down the hill so I can meet him in LA. The excuse is a film premiere but we all know what it’s really for. I am such a sweeter girl when I get what I need. Fuck. Please.