I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.
He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.
I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.
I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait.
He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.
I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.
I am pleased.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.
I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.
(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)