non se-qui-tur/, nan ‘sekwiter/
noun: A conclusion or statement that does not logically follow from the previous argument or statement.
Aahhh, New York City.
What a wonderful, decadent place. Women in heels up to there, dresses down to there, men in suits and crisp ties (ohgods…I do love a man in a suit…(and jeans, and nekkid….but I digress))…So many people to see, a veritable sea of humanity ebbing and flowing down the dirty streets of New York.
The whirrrrrr of the subway (and the subsequent rush of musty hot air) through the sidewalk gratings.
And oh, there are stories to be told— the subway enticed my imagination!
The theater … *biiiig smile*
We drive home last night through intense rain, buffeting winds. Teenage girls in the back seats, talking about things from text etiquette, to boys, to NYC, to boys… a pleasant counterpoint to the road-fog and pounding rain outside the van.
Finally back to our starting point, we decant, unload, and finally the teen kiddo and I can head home.
And then it’s time for bed, which means time to call my Master.
We talk. We laugh.
He is happy; the Bruins won and go to game 7 (I am banned from calling or texting Wednesday night, LOL!), and we talk about our families, about NY, about the horrid (but needed ) weather, the drive home…
Finally, His voice falls to a “tender” place…and He sends me to bed without an O, which I pout about, a little. Maybe more because I feel I should push for every opportunity? Coz I was one tired nilla-slut. Five hours of driving, two days of walking…yes, I did need to sleep.
“Go to sleep slut.”
I yawn, and I swear I can hear Him smile through the phone.
“See? You’re too tired to touch. Go to sleep nilla.”
“Yes, Master.” Less obedience than capitulation, I admit. I yawn, apologizing.
Oh, and nilla?
“Yes, Master?” I am sleepy-voiced now, slurry with fatigue.
On that time that we finally get together, sometime in June or November or what-the-fuck-ever time it is…(His voice drops lower, softer) I’m going to fist-fuck you. Goodnight little girl.