My Blanket

I hate it when he sends me upstairs to think about things. I know darn well what I did and thinking about it just makes it worse, ’cause he’ll be up sooner or later holding that awful old belt of his, smiling that crummy little smile.

Usually while I’m waiting for himself I just lay curled up and hold my blanket. You’d think at thirty-five years old I wouldn’t need it, but it’s comforting. He can make me feel like such a child. I think I hate that worse than anything, but here I lay, all dressed up, just the way he likes me, holding my threadbare wool blanket. Okay, so it was my usual mistake. Even with a calculator and a computer I still can’t get out checkbook to balance. I don’t blame him for being mad, really I don’t. This month the fees from bouncing six checks were over three hundred dollars. I suppose I need him to keep me in line.

One time when he came in I was laughing – Just before he walked in I’d noticed that I was holding my little girl blanket in nails that I’d painted a violent sexy red. He didn’t think it was funny at all, though – he took the blanket with him when he left and I was really afraid I’d never see it again. Not that I was capable of rational thought at the time. Thirty minutes with his belt was awful, he was still mad about my laughing, and he didn’t spare any effort.

It’s the last few minutes when I hear the stairs squeaking that are bad. The door bursts open and there he is. Smiling, like I said. I don’t know why he always insists that I’m dressed up. I’d feel better just wearing jeans, but no, a cocktail dress and pantyhose and stilettos and makeup and perfume and my hair all done up. Usually he calls from work, so I have most of the say to get cleaned up and ready.

And to think about it. By the time he makes it home I’m all wound up and so wet I can hardly wait for him to finish dinner. We sit there and I watch him, wanting to hurry him up. Sometimes I’m literally bouncing in my chair, but he always takes his time, making me wait for it. Knowing he’ll send me upstairs any minute now. And then he’ll come up…

After he’s through teaching me my lesson, he cuddles up to me, well, me and my blanket. When I can get cotnrol of myself and stop my tears, then the fun starts. He kisses me, all of me, and in moments he’s stripped me naked. Oh, and him too. Not a stitch on, either one of us, and after he’s spent his time playing with me all over, and I think you know where I mean, I’m on my back and he’s pushing that great big cock of his inside me, and I’m so happy, I bet I’m the happiest girl in the world.

Afterwards we always lay there and just hold each other and he’s my big strong handsome man and I’m his naughty girl who needed him.

Of course, I can always tell when we’re going to have one of our little evenings of pain and pleasure. My blanket is sitting on the back of his chair at breakfast. I always know.

After all, I left it there.


Written for #wankwednesday. See the other entries here



3 Responses to My Blanket

  1. Mina says:

    Such a coy little devil!

  2. sxybklvr says:

    Nice twist at the end.

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