It’s all up to me. Every day it’s the same thing. She expects me to do all the work. Why she can’t wake up on her own, I’ll never know. No, she lays the responsibility on me every time. I know her expectations, or maybe they’re threats. “Wake me up.” “Warm my hands.” “Clear my throat.” “You better be gratifying, or else!” Of course, she can’t find someone else to do her dirty work. Oh no. Never. Can’t you feel the weight of this responsibility? If she doesn’t focus well at work, it’s my fault. If she’s sleepy in the afternoon, my fault! And God forbid she be grouchy in the morning. That makes my job a thousand times worse.
And then there’s the issue of that same green thing she likes to use every morning. Yeah, you know. The one with the pretty leaves, or, even worse, the *gasp* high heeled one! Yes, high heels. I know. It’s sickening for someone like me, a robust, full bodied guy, to have to endure that. But I do it anyway because it’s my job, and despite the difficulties, I’m good at my job.
But I have to admit. I do love the cool of her hands around me. And the soft hum in her throat as I settle down. It’s the satisfaction she expects from me. Yes, I complain. But giving her what she wants? It satisfies me too.
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