We sat on opposite ends of the couch, each with work to do, but with the freedom afforded by a lazy weekend morning. I curled on one side with iced espresso and printed pages, my reading punctuated by soft sighs of frustration. He sat on the other with his laptop and hot coffee, silently working at whatever it is he does to facilitate his doing something else.
After some time flipping through my pages, I realized I had no idea what I was reading. I wasn’t paying attention. Instead, I was thinking about him, over there on the other end of the couch, and wondering whether he was thinking of me. The continuous soft clicking of the keyboard suggested he was not. He isn’t as easily distracted as I am — his focus is one of the things I most admire in him, except when I want it and it’s somewhere else.
While we had agreed to spend a few hours apart-together getting caught up on work projects, I found working in the same room easier said than done. I was annoyed with myself for being distracted and annoyed with him for not being the same. It felt like we were ignoring each other — which was our intent — but actively ignoring him didn’t feel good. Being actively ignored felt worse.
Perhaps, I thought, some little bit of contact might make it feel better, some point of physical connection while we worked — as I went about the business of staying here, and he went about the business of leaving. With pages in hand, I bridged the gap between us and leaned in to him a little. He shifted himself to be more comfortable for me, kissed the top of my head, and returned his attention to his screen.
I flipped back a few pages and refocused on my work, rereading passages I hadn’t really read the first time. After some time passed, I found myself staring at the same point on the page where I had started a few minutes before.
I was done pretending to work and I wanted his attention, but I was too prideful to say so outright. I tossed my papers on the coffee table and rested my head on his shoulder — I figured that would be enough of a hint that I wanted some attention. I closed my eyes and waited for him to put his work aside.
I figured he might be finishing up some important thought, so I waited. I’m not sure how much time passed, but it felt like ages.
He didn’t set his work aside. Perhaps my hint wasn’t clear enough.
I squeezed his thigh and left my hand resting gently on his cock, soft underneath the thin cotton.
He paused, but only for a moment, and then continued typing.
I lifted up his t-shirt and slipped my hand under the waistband of his boxer shorts (he hates them, but they look good and give me easy access). His cock stiffened slightly under my hand and I saw a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
After another pause, this one longer than the last, he continued typing, but more haltingly this time. I listened to his stuttered typing for a few moments before I found my spot, just below the head of his cock, and sunk my nails into his flesh.
The keyboard finally went silent, and a small gasp escaped his lips.
That little gasp was enough to flip the switch in my brain, to dissolve my hesitance, and to shift my mood from needy to playful. That small gasp assured me I had his full attention.
For a moment, I thought about playing a little game — I’d hold his cock, direct him to work, and every time he focused on his screen long enough to get midway through a sentence, I’d distract him. That seemed like fun, and it seemed fair — after all, I had been sitting there forever thinking of him while he selfishly attended to his work. It seemed fair to distract him purposefully after wanting his attention and having to inflict some small pain to get it.
I released him and turned my attention to his computer screen to see what he was working on.
After a wall of text in the open document file, there was a break and then a few short lines…
I can’t fucking focus
all I can think about is kissing you
every inch of you
every part of you I can reach
The text ended in the middle of the thought. I smiled at knowing I had his attention before I demanded it.
“Is that so…? Kissing me… it’s all you can think about…?” It wasn’t really a question, but I stroked his cock and waited for a response anyway.
“Mhmm-hmmm… yes, Ma’am… it’s all I can think about…”
“Good boy,” I laughed, “I was just thinking the same thing… it’s like you read my mind.”
I stopped stroking him abruptly and pulled my hand from his shorts. He whimpered in response.
“Kisses. Everywhere. I like that idea… you can start at my neck and work your way down…”
He’s a good boy — he set his work aside and did as he was told.
|everyday D/s #1
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