I was feeling pretty terrible, my mind playing tricks and my body protesting against the sudden withdrawal of my head meds, so I went back to bed in the middle of the daytime, fully intended to sleep off the symptoms.
As I snuggled into my pillow-piled nest, I realised I wasn’t sleepy. Perhaps a little solo play session would help me feel better. I explored the idea behind closed eyelids; would it? Contemplating the possibilities of my toy collection, a spark of arousal began to glow – I realised that already I felt less sick, less headachy, less despondent. Worth a try then.
It’s been three days since I had an orgasm and while I’m not yet at the point of desperation; I’m wandering around in a permanent state of low-level arousal with kinky mind-porn playing almost continually in the back of my mind. (More so than usual, that is).
You’ve done a lot of wanking in hotel rooms. Those one-night trips away for work, from the same anonymous chain hotels transplanted across the cities of England to the occasional quirkily unique independent hostelry; upon entering your chamber, the first thing you look for is masturbation possibilities. Full-length mirrors? Underfloor bathroom heating? A tiny slice of viewpoint within which a glimpse could be caught from the outside world? Perhaps a comfortable chair on which to sprawl, loose-limbed and wanton; imagining hands, eyes, tongues upon you?
She steps into view and-
oh, hel-lo gorgeous
-for she is, truly.
Often a source of displeasure, tonight her appearance sparks joy across my synapses. Luminous, carefully made-up dark eyes peer anxiously before widening with delighted recognition.
I close the door of the hotel room and lean against it, kicking off my kitten-heel shoes with a sigh. Conferences are always so exhausting once the high of getting my geek on wears off. My mind is racing; notes to make, follow-up emails to send, ideas, conversations, names, faces…it’s all too much to cope with right now. I reach for my phone and text Him.
This story follows on from The Governor’s Wife
Hatches have been battened, sails have been furled. There is even less to entertain her than usual; the crew are universally tight-lipped and tense, paying her little regard as they attend to their foul-weather preparations. Her presence on deck went unnoticed despite her languorous touching of masts and rails, her speculative glances at ropes and cleats. Has she become invisible since the storm warning was sounded? Eclipsed by Mother Nature, she feels even more superfluous than ever, unable to contribute more than ornamentation to which the sailors are oblivious, she retires to her dark cabin and broods.