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John Brownstone knows what to expect when we visit my family. Staying in my mother’s house tanks my libido. I don’t want to be touched and don’t even think of rubbing up against me in the middle of the night.
Normally, this means we become one of those couples who barely touches while we’re here. It’s sad really. We slip away for coffee just to have time together, but it’s not the same level of intimacy.
This visit has been different.
The playful pats on the ass from him don’t make me dance away. Instead, I lean in close. The morning hugs take a moment longer than necessary as we press in a little closer.
His muttered “Babygirl” in warning gives me a small thrill. The way he tells me what he wants me to do — from pouring coffee to taking a walk with him — gets my attention.
I laid in bed last night contemplating sexy images I could take. I positioned myself while we watched TV so that he couldn’t ignore my bottom. Wiggling may or may not have occurred.
What would I have done if he’d taken me up on my invitation? I honestly don’t know. Frankly, I wish I could see fucking in my mother’s house as something deliciously naughty instead of the cold splash of water it currently is.
But my sexual nature seems activated even as I’ve placed a self-imposed celibacy on us both. I step out of the shower and stare at my body in the mirror. The blurry, shadowed image behind the fogged glass fascinates me. I want to take pictures, and I want him to see. Hell, I want everyone to see. Most definitely, I want to be touched, to have every curve traced by fingertips and tongue.
But in the stark reality of the day, I’m okay with hand-holding and hugs.
Maybe it’s the denial that has triggered a sensuality I didn’t expect, a desire I couldn’t anticipate. Maybe it’s knowing we’ll soon be in a hotel for a night, away from everyone, free to do whatever kinky fuckery comes to mind.
Yeah, it’s probably that. Until then, I’ll let my mind wander, my body captivate my imagination, and my libido lay low…for now.