Pining for the Fjords

Well, not really.

Okay, yes, I lied. I am, but only a little.

So, I mentioned something on Monday about an excuse for my lateness. Short of the long, Ma and I are in the process of trying to start an online business. She was home sick, so we decided to get crackin’ on it. We’re still in the very early stages of our business, so more details as they come I suppose.

Trying to juggle multiple projects sucks, let me tell ya.

Moving along, today’s sprint is a continuation of last Friday’s sprint, which all began when L.M. Stull posted a prompt on her blog. Due to popular demand/fear, I’ve kept it going.  Cause of it’s adulty type nature, We’ll call it pg-13, for snapping undies and boob accents.

“I wasn’t pining,” I protested, feeling his hands shift to my hips, pressing me against the curves of his body.

“You’re also a very bad liar,” he breathed. I nearly melted feeling the heat of his breath against my chilled skin. I was so engrossed in his embrace that I barely took notice of his hands sliding against the inside of my thigh, until he snapped the band of my underwear. I squeaked in surprise, my skin stinging slightly as he laughed lowly.

“Pay attention to your surroundings pet,” he chided, breaking away from me to collect his bags waiting just inside the door, “or you could wind up in a compromising situation.” I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as he casually walked towards the bedroom to deposit his things; did anyone else see us? Or was he just messing with my mind again?

“What if I wanted to be caught in a compromising situation?” I said loudly, hoping to heal my wounded pride. “Maybe I like it when other people watch!”

“No you don’t.” he called back, his voice thick with confidence. Now I was flustered; how do I respond to that? Doing my best to keep my calm, I walked out of the kitchen area and towards the bedroom.

“How do you know?” I asked calmly, trying to sound slightly smug as I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed to accent my chest. He was already making himself at home, hanging his clothes in the closet and placing his shoes in a meticulous order. “I could have developed a liking for being watched.”

“The Bureau regularly updates your file,” he said absently, stepping back to admire his work.

“Like what? Once a month?” Breaking his focus on the closet for a brief moment, he fiddled with his phone before tossing it to me. On the screen was a shortened version of my slave records, including my sexual deviances.

“Scroll down to the bottom,” he said, taking a few hangers out to readjust their order. Doing as I was told, I went to the bottom of my page and saw the update log; it was today, at noon precisely. “The Bureau keeps very meticulous records of their slaves,” he said, closing the doors to the closet, satisfied with his work.

“The more records, the higher the resale value?” I asked, locking the screen as he walked towards me

“In some cases, yes,” he said. I admired his phone in the light for a few moments; it was very slim compared to what was currently on the market for commercial sales. “May I have my phone back please?” He asked, holding his hand out expectantly.

Switching my gaze between him and the slim object in my hand, I slipped the phone into my bosom instead. “Come and get it,” I dared him, walking confidently into the living room.