Page 5 of His Rise

I know that I’ll be slack with my studies for the first week while I get used to the routine, but it’s okay. While my bookshop job was coming to an end, I put in some extra hours, so I’m starting out a little ahead. I will have to catch up, but not too much.

I wish I could call Daddy, but it won’t work for his time zone.

After I work my way through a couple of slices of pizza and some of a pint of cookie-dough ice-cream — okay, most of it — I’m about to turn in for an early night.

All the time I’m trying to connect with a series on Netflix. The Crown is usually kind of a guilty pleasure, but I can’t stay focused on it. I keep drifting out and losing the plot. Restless, I flip from one series to another until they all start blurring into one romcom-docudrama-musical mush.

Unsettling thoughts curl around in the back of my head. A jump at the dark glint of a certain pair of eyes. Sharp intakes of breath at the size of a particular pair of hands. Tightness in my chest at the stretch of expensive suit fabric over one prodigious bulge.

The unsettling rasp of his voice echoes. It bounces and clatters inside me like pebbles tumbling in my stomach.

I decide to take a shower before bed. Let the spill and splash of warm water wash away the day and the daydreams, and soothe me into sleepiness.

And that really doesn’t work out the way I planned.

The patter and gush of the soft, warm water rolls and trickles over me, seeping and scurrying into every part of me. Finding paths to run into every crease and crevice, channeling over my shoulders, down to drip off my breasts, slewing down my stomach, around my waist and the tops of my thighs.

As I follow the flow, I stroke and lather the body wash all over myself. Images loom in my mind.

Images of him. With me in the shower. How dare he? He can’t come in the shower with me. I want to tell imaginary Joe, ‘no,’ or at least, I wish I did.

“Yes,” I sigh.

Seeing him get his nice suit all wet, soaking so it sticks to his skin, showing the outlines and contours, the rolling ridges of his body. Shoving up behind me.

Poking. Against my ass. Reaching to grab and squeeze me. His hands. Everywhere. Insistent. The thickening, lengthening heft of him, pushing out. Jutting. I’m still imagining the arrogant push of his lip. I want to rub my pussy all over his face.

He can’t be in here, putting those huge hands on me where my hands are. Squeezing. Kneading. Stroking and caressing. Delving. Down, deeper. Probing. Pushing up. Slipping along, over, around, through. And in.

Oh my.

His huge, strong fingers. His pulsing ridge. His hard eyes. And his breath. On my neck. His lips.

Where I rub, faster and wider, the soap foams. I make circles, side to side, up and down. In. Oh, god. Out. Oh. My thighs spread. Both hands. I’m bending. Clenching. Gasping.

Imagining the ripping sound of his zipper. His commanding voice behind me. Instructing me. I can’t hold on. The release of his hard, hot, reddening cock.

The hard, round point of hot flesh. Pushing. Probing. Parting. Piercing. Penetrating. Pounding. Oh my god.

I’m bent over. My face screwed tight. Clenches and tingles flash through my body. I’m shaking. Losing control. Tipping over. Brimming. And I burst like a dam.

Damn him.

I’m crumpled in a heap under the falling water. Still shaking. And furious with myself.

Glowing inside.

I woke up still half in a dream, wishing I could go back and do the same dream over, dream it again, so I could make it come out another way. The feeling hung over me, but by the time I rolled out from under the covers, I couldn’t remember anything about the dream except for a feeling of falling.

Getting up and out is a struggle. Still stiff and cranky from a rough night and too little sleep, I wade and stumble in the low, watery dazzle of the morning sun through a thick blanket of slowness and tired resistance in my body.

Skirt or pants? Some of the baristas in other JavaLava outlets wear mid length, flared black skirts. I have one like that. Pleated.

Skirt or pants? I can’t even think.

Maybe the pants I wore yesterday. But I want something clean for the first day. I could have washed them last night if I hadn’t been… Well, anyway, I probably should have washed and pressed them. I haven’t got another pair that’s as nice. So they’re what I’ll wear.

I can press them quickly enough.

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