Whew! Jesus, I’m sweatin’ like a pig, y’all! I can feel the moisture tricklin’ down my side, poolin’ ‘neath me. I shore could use a little help. I need some soothin’. Hope y’all don’t mine.
Oh! There goes anothuh little bit a somethin’ flowing ’round my curves. Mmm-hmmm, but a cool breeze would feel mighty fine right now.
Mmmmm, there he his with his firm grip on me. Uh-oh, I’m so wet, I’ve done made him slippery. Hope he don’t let go, y’all. That man’s gotta fine touch. Ya know what, though? His mouth is even bettah! Woo-wheee! I like that feelin’! He can do that ’til the cows come home, y’all. ‘Specially when his tongue slides over my soft curves and hard edges. Almighty damn, I love me some o’ that!
Y’all wanna hear the best part, evah? Come a little closer, yeah? I don’t want no one else to be hearin’ me. No, they won’t be understandin’ like you will. The best part? When he fills me up good and just sets me right here on da edge. I don’t move. I just set. Set and sweat. That’s what I was a-doin’ when y’all got here. Settin’ and sweatin’ and waitin’ for that man to be needin’ me again.
I’m a good girl, ya hear? That big ole man uses me when he wants, and I don’ complain. Uh-uh, not me. He puts me in dark corners. He hangs me upside-down. I’m just happy bein’ in his hands, feeling those strong, tough ole fingers, knowin’ what they capable of. Wooo-wheeeee! When he puts them inside of me, feelin’ to see if I’m damp. Mmm-hmmm, that’s mighty fine, right there, y’all. Ain’t nothin’ better than his touch.
But then there’s the bad times. When he don’t fill me up. When he fo-gets me. When he wants somethin’ other than little ole me. Damn his eyes! He makes me so all fired mad I can’t even see straight! What them others got that I don’t got? Huh? Y’all tell me! Whatevah it is, I can do it, I know I can. Want somethin’ hot? I’m happy to oblige! Somethin’ cold, mmmm, even better, y’all. Hell bells, just set me on this here table and forget me, but Jesus H. Christ, fill me and use me.
Like I was sayin’ though, I’m a good girl. Damn his eyes, for him, I’ll always be his good girl. Don’t be lookin’ at me like that, ya hear? I’m damned useful, y’all. I know my place, and it’s right here on this table, filled with whatever he’s needin’ – beer, water, Coke-Cola, even some of that fizzy stuff fo’ when his stomach gets to actin’ up. I’m his glass and no damn mug or silly ole Red Solo Cup can be takin’ that away from me. Do I make myself clear? I see you eyein’ him, eyein’ those large hands and soft ole lips. But you get off a’ my table, ‘fore I push you over and break yore sorry ole ass! I’m his good girl, not none of y’all.
Before you think I’ve lost my damn mind, this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt was to write from the point of view of a glass on the edge of a table. For whatever reason, I heard every country woman I’ve ever grown up with in my head and knew this wet, full, lonely glass was a kinky girl with a jealous streak.