Driving home…
… I remember last night.
… I think of him touching my leg when we sat at the bar. His hand had a message.
… I think of his arm briefly around my shoulders when we walked back to the car.
… I think of him slapping my ass when he happened to pass behind me in the kitchen.
… I think of how I wiggled my ass and got what I wanted – some stingy slaps.
… I think of him bending over me, kissing me and wanting to grab my breast.
… I think of how I pushed him away.
… I think of the change in his eyes.
… I think of my mischief, how I stuck my tongue out.
… I think of him asking “what was that?”
… I think of me sticking my tongue out again.
… I think of how hard he grabbed my breast, hurting me while he said: “It seems you have forgotten who’s the boss.”
Driving home, I know we are on the road to recovery. On the road to finding a new balance with the new circumstances, the fact that he’s a bit more ‘restricted’ than he had been before. I know we will get there, and I know I will kneel before him again.
© Rebel’s Notes
