Walk of Shame

Her elbow as the hinge, her hand lowered the phone to the bed after she finished her morning dose of Dieter.  She pushed the sheets off her body, bumping him, and climbed out of the bed.

Pulling her underwear followed by her pants over her hips, she remembered feeling the electricity of his fingers as he took them off only hours ago.

Fully dressed, she closed the door to his house and began her walk.  Thinking about the night, she recalled her surprise at his home’s level of  décor.  At the bar, he was nicely dressed, but so were most of her other conquests.  She discovered early on that not many men had the stamina to match the presentation of their home to the presentation of their body.  But he did.  She liked that.

She recalled that the wine he served her was remarkably smooth.  “Then again at 2:00 am, (or was it 3?) what wine wasn’t?” she laughed to herself.  They drank it in his wine cellar before he led her upstairs.  She remembered thinking that she didn’t need the comfort of a bed.  Loving how he was so in control, she willingly followed.

Already 9:00 am on a Sunday, she was sure everyone driving by could guess how she spent her night.  After all, her hair was disheveled, she was in heels, and her clothing was not exactly the type women wear for a coffee run.  Let them wonder, she thought.  They would never guess everything.  They would never know her feelings for him.  They would never suspect that afterwards she turned his head–always heavier than expected–so the draining blood wouldn’t soil her half of the thousand count sheets as she slept it off.

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