dreamwaffles said: 1: ask grocery stores or liquor stores for old boxes. 2: it’s like being a hermit crab leaving behind an old shell. I promise you’ll be okay, and learn new things and become more awesome. And then come home. <#
Thanks. <3 I appreciate it. I’ll go find boxes later. I might ask SD really nice to help me get some tomorrow.
Moving is extremely stressful. I can’t even contemplate packing boxes, even though I have yet to acquire boxes to pack, because I need to decide whether I’m getting totally uniform boxes and shelling out the cash or whether I’m saying screw it and letting the Amtrak employees deal with my crazy box sizes.
I don’t want to make them mad, but getting perfectly even boxes is difficult to do for free. And I really do need to start packing things.
Mostly all I want to do is hide in SD’s house and have sex with him and feel wanted and not like I’m leaving myself behind in Portland.
That giggling, smiling face is the one I have whenever I’m getting in the way of him doing some productive. So far, he’s been tolerant.
Sometimes, he calls me ma’am and whispers please, please, come on top of me, and begs so prettily that I can’t help myself.
Disclaimer: the following contains my first brief foray into knifeplay and some overtures/skimming over of talk of death. Please remember I had my safewords. If you think you may be triggered, please take care of yourself: all of my posts having to do with knives are tagged #edges, and all of my posts having to do with fearplay are tagged #fears.
He briefly showed me his knives. I stood in his bathrobe at the foot of his bed. He hadn’t meant to, not at first: he took out his knife because he was getting dressed and was going to loop it onto his belt, and he saw the look in my eyes.
He took my hand and traced the small one along my thumb. And then brought out the longer one. The sharper one that was kept in mint condition, that glistened in the light. He showed me how long it was (from the side, through his ribs, right into his heart, if he chose to) and then brought the tip down lightly on the hollow of my throat, between collarbone and neck. I froze against the threshold I had, at some point, ended up against, staring at him under his arm, my lips parted. I could feel the light prick, the threat of a foot or so of steel hovering over me.
He told me what would happen if the knife were to be shoved in.
Then he traced the tip across my face.
I buckled to my knees when he put it away and he laughed, and kissed me, holding me in his warmth.