It was Girls Arvo In today so I knew word would be thin on the ground once the festivities kicked in (I didn’t quite count on the hang over that has decided to grace me with it’s presence before dinner time).
I’m currently wading through the negotiation and and exploring the boundaries within and beyond Tabitha and Christian. And well, you know, there’s kinda a lot of sex, including baiting the servant Marie to watch then through the key hole. In writing that I’ve realised I need to write one scene that connects them taking to the horizontal folk dance floor for the first time and having enough gumption to begin mind game of exhibitionism.
So that’s the fun for tomorrow to find the where and how of that connecting scene.
The best bit about today was getting a chance to sit in the car, during the drive from Stacey’s place to mind and talk about my story. It appears to make sense when I related it and Stacey gave me a great recommendation of an author to read, who combines horror and erotica well.
So what to leave you with this evening?
* * *
“There’s tea,” Christian said, pouring a second cup. “Come on Tabby, don’t ruin the morning with a tantie about the food.”
“I half expect bloody Basil Fawltey to walk through the door.”
“Lets hope he doesn’t. ”Christian sniggered and poured a dash of milk into the tea. “So you reckon they have a house cow sequestered away in the house somewhere?”
“I think you have the wrong class of folk. Isn’t it the poor who live with their animals.”
“I was just thinking,” he said, adding a sugar cube. “If we’re totally cut off from the outside world – where does all the food come from. You know, the fresh food.”
“I couldn’t care less if there was no milk. I take my coffee black.”
“When you’re not drinking lattes.”
“You always just assumed I drank the same as you. I was only being polite.”
“Only being polite,” he parroted and drew her into his lap, nuzzled her neck.
“How many positions did Prince have in that one night stand?” His words caressed her ear, sparking a delicious shiver down her back that chased away her bad mood. She’d eaten worse as a student. Hell, she’d eaten worse in the 18 years of living with her constantly distracted parents.
“21 or something like that,” Tabitha said, moving from the chaos of the series of houses they’d called home, the smell of oil paint, turpentine and rollies to the gentle creep of his hands under her top.
“And we’re up to how many?”
“I didn’t think we were counting,” she said, arching her back to let him take her nipple in his mouth.