It’s now been three days since we exchanged anything more than a short sentence, and nothing at all about what happened on Christmas Day.
He’s been wearing the only long-sleeved shirt he brought with him almost constantly, and looks at me with what appears to be a mixture of puzzlement and suspicion.
Although he’d not resisted at all when I tied him, the bikinis’ material has left deep red grooves as he’d writhed under me. The knots must have been too tight and the material too abrasive against his skin, but I’d not done anything like that before and hadn’t been prepared for how much he’d move or how long I could make the experience last.
Before Monday, sex had usually lasted for a maximum of 5 minutes, very occasionally 10, but that had been the best hour of my entire life, and thinking about it, as I have been almost constantly , makes me smile.
Maybe that’s why he keeps looking at me the way he does?