After such momentous and foreboding eventuations, let’s catch a quick breather.
Cute moment number 1:
Great, now I’m gonna need to see my cardiologist, because my heart is swelling something fierce.
Cute moment number 2:
The man really is a fun, lively glutton.
Cute moment number 3, when I propose a date to Windress:
That’s right, doxy, I brought only what’s in my heart, as well’s what’s in my pants.
After some verbal back-and-forth she lets drop all pretense of doubt and evasiveness (that doesn’t fit her anyway, but then again, ‘hidden heart’ and all that), then takes my hand in hers and up to my room drags me. Once she’s closed the door with a sexy click of her heel, she asserts two facts about herself can bear no refute: she might be a whore but still possesses a modicum of class nonetheless, consectary to which she doesn’t fuck on the first date. Because this is a date.
– “Fine with me,” I answer. “So what do we do now?”
– “I… haven’t actually thought that far… but it’s your room.”
– “Get wasted?”
– “That’s not an activity.”
– “Fairly certain it is, actually.”
And wasted we get, all chaste- and proper-like, until the room seems acrook and we crawl maladroitly in bed.
Tut tut tut. Nuh-uh. I know Windress is not really sleeping. I just know it. As soon as I move or try anything, be it the slightest, most feather-light touch ever employed, she will stir then shoot me a knowing smile under half-open eyes while reminding me of what she previously said. That simply has to be what will happen.
Rejoice! for mine is the gift of prescience. Hey, Tyranicon:
Then:
I’ll have blue balls vulva in the morning, that’s for sure. Still, the affair was very cute..
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