I just don't get Simon's problem.
If I know him well enough to let him stick his tongue in my pussy why don't I also know him well enough to know what the damn key he wears around his neck is for?
And he never takes it off.
Not even when we shower.
It's just always there, on that pitiful piece of string, dangling on his hard chest just between his nipples. And since we're the same height when we wrap ourselves around each other face to face it dangles between mine. When we stand together in the shower slowly soaping one another I can reach everywhere that there is to be reached without losing mouth to mouth and nipple to nipple contact.
I love those moments. He's so naked then, so vulnerable. I love to trace the scars and nicks that map the history of Simon's past on his skin. All the little gashes, the bullet holes, the knife wounds. He has that one gouge on the flesh of his pecs that healed to a tiny perfect circle.
The first time we were in the shower and I eased over and inserted my nipple into it he moaned and almost came right then. Afterwards he said that I was the most imaginative woman that he'd ever been with.
But even with all my imagination I just could not figure out what that damn key could be for.
Standing over him now while he slept in this broiling Florida motel, the fan just barely stirring the dead air, his naked torso sporting a tent under the thin sheet that slashed across his waist I wondered do I love him?
Does he love me?
The scissors weighed heavy in my hand.
If I took the key would he forgive me? Would it be worth it?
But then he stirred, opened molten eyes, reached for me. I lay the scissors down, climbed onto the bed and straddled him.
Another day would be soon enough to decide.
This week's list of 48 stories at Mad Utopia