Waiting

Her creativity is boundless. Her dedication thorough. Her ability to surprise me… still surprising.

I might wander in, hear ordinary domestic sounds from the kitchen, investigate and find her still in the skirt and blouse from her professional attire (and heels and stockings and garter and lacy panties, yum, just for me underneath), with an apron on, baking something.

Or I might find her right inside the front door. Kneeling, hands bound, eyes lowered, waiting to be taken.

Or up in our bedroom. In heels and panties, facing the corner. Something I need to hear about and fix.

Or on the dining room table, prostrate, surrounded by… a variety of suggestive toys. And my camera.

Or… someplace new, some new pose, a different outfit, another notion.

The point is not that she surprises me, although it’s true every day.

The point is, that as I travel homeward, the plane of the universe tilts. The point is that I know, in that last twenty minutes of the bus ride, that she is waiting, with nothing more important in her universe than that we will be merged again in a little while. The point is to be thought about and valued and desired. There is nothing in the world sexier than that.

— Frenulum