AFTERNOON: "THE INTERVAL"
When I returned from the bathroom, she was sitting, on one of my metal stools, in the open-plan kitchen, sipping a glass of water. Neither of us bothered to get dressed; I took notice of her tight, taut-skinned tits, alluring as always, their nipples beginning to relax from their erect state, and of her pussy, still wet, leaving damp smudges on the leather seat of the stool. Curling her lips into a smile, she lowered her gaze to inspect my cock; it was now falling down, getting softer.
"It's hot."
I pulled up a stool closer to her. Only now, the events of before, at work, were beginning to come back to me, and with them, the associated anxiety. "Oh, and so are you."
She chuckled and tossed her head back seductively, then crossed her legs on the stool for more comfortable position. Her snatch got hidden from my view; she noticed the disappointed look in my eyes and gave out a soft laugh. "Not to worry, love. You'll get in there again soon." My pupils widened. I leaned in for a kiss, sweet and gentle at first, but she turned it into a more passionate one, with tongues. It was drugging. She looked down. "We'd better stop, there it goes up again." She uttered the words lightly, like a joke, but it didn't come across as laughing at my maleness. The cock sure did come back up; it was easily hardened.
"Something bothering you, sweetie?" I met her gaze, suddenly intense. She seemed like she took notice of the anxiety behind my eyes. I hesitated. "What is it?" she pressed on.
"Well—" There wasn't really an easy way of saying this.
"Go on. I am a good listener." She held out her hand and put it on my shoulder. There was a genuine concern there, I thought.
She added playfully, "I am not just a good slut, you know."
A few images of her against the headboard and my cock jamming into her the slut flashed in my mind. I allowed a cascade of laughter out. Her friendly, now quite asexual manner, broke the dam - all the more surprising as she sat in front of me completely naked.
Slowly, stopping now and again for sips of water, in slightly shaky voice, I told her the story of this morning and the "lived experience denial" accusation. She spotted all the moments where I felt my voice would give way - every time there was a squeeze of my hand, a peck on the cheek or some other tiny, but obvious, gesture. My emotions wouldn't let me tell the story matter-of-factly - there was too much at stake. She listened to "the narrative" - words I would use in my lectures - her expression betraying accumulating levels of incredulity.
