End Games


end gamesYou slip from the bed naked and scamper like a nymph to the bathroom. For a teasing second he sees a glimpse of round bottom and then you are gone.

Draped in towels and head-wrapped you mundanely attended to your face mask or toenails before remembering a night-discarded garment and bending to retrieve it from the floor.

Again the full moon rises to tease your lord before scattering his sensibilities under a cloud of towels.

Make-up is donned with bottom safely ensconced in a chair and hidden from view until he gathers the tea tray and retreats to the kitchen to make preparations for the day.

“How do I look?” you say once you emerge. Pencil skirt hugs your bottom and his eyes are drawn south in wonder. “No my make-up,” you say.

He regards the blue-mustard hazel adoring him beneath crafted pint works and marvels at the true green that glows there.

“Beautiful,” he says.

You depart with a roll of hips and nary a backward glance. Perhaps oblivious to the game as he follows you with his gaze.

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