“I’m going to do bad things to you,” he murmured in my ear last night, hand in the small of my back, heat diffusing along the thin silk.

“Will you cuddle me afterwards,” I asked.

“Will you beg?”


I don’t think he knows just how much I think about him. About how often I visit the thought of his hands or his shoulders. About how in the lull of a quiet moment at work I close my eyes, bite my lip, and let the feeling of his skin on mine become the center of my universe.

More baggage than I want to unpack with him, but it’s not fair to keep it to myself. I have to tell him, sooner or later, because if I keep it to myself, I can’t blame him for not giving me what I want or need.

Right now though, I just want to curl up, with his hand between my shoulder blades, my head tucked under his chin, breathing in his scent.


He did do bad things to me.

And I begged.


3 Responses to “baggage”

  1. Marvelous. I love your writing, you encapsulate a moment, or a thought perfectly. I wish I had that skill to say so much in a few paragraphs.

  2. Thank you! I find it’s something I developed while only having a few minutes each day to write on the bus, years ago.

  3. Now, I’m even more jealous. In addition to being super-jealous of your writing style, I’m now jealous that you can write on the bus. Or, dare I say, transportation in general.

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