shoulder. I need to schedule a massage for later in the week so I can stay on top of things. Not only is this my shooting arm, it’s my fingering-Violet hand as well. I can’t have anything interfering with my career, or my ability to get her off.
I decide to order takeout from her favorite restaurant, as well as a bottle of champagne, her favorite flowers, and some chocolates. That should cover all the bases and win back some of my lost points from this morning. I also recognize that this opportunity is a big deal for her, and I do want to celebrate her accomplishments. I get that right now this is what she wants, so I’ll support her. Her work ethic is honorable, if not always easy for me to handle.
After training I spend a few hours at Darren’s watching Toronto games and planning our strategy for tomorrow. I get home around four-thirty, which gives me plenty of time to get things set up for the romantic dinner. First I remove the cardboard effigies of myself from the front hall. The giant stuffed beaver finds a new home in the sitting room, which is where I discover a picnic-like set up in front of the fireplace.
My workout mats, covered with fluffy blankets and pillows, are laid out close to the fireplace—it’s gas so there’s no worry about burning down the house. Pink paper litters the surrounding area. I crouch and pick one up; it’s dick-shaped, with balls and everything. Some have little red capes glued to them in honor of Super MC.
It looks like half the work has already been done for me. Violet had some elaborate plans last night, it seems. I didn’t make it past the kitchen yesterday, too focused on getting the cardboard cutouts set up and readying the bedroom for a serious sex-a-thon, with only half an hour to accomplish it all.
Beside the pile of blankets is a box of Fruit Roll-Ups. I’m not sure what those are for, so I leave them where they are and make a trip to the wine cellar. Champagne never lasts long with Violet, so I want to have her favorite wine handy as well.
Once everything is organized, I shower and shave, throw clean sheets on the bed, and wait.
Dinner arrives promptly at six. I put everything in the oven on warm, apart from the salad, which goes in the fridge. It’s already full in there. Violet has some sort of fruit platter and a bunch of dips, including chocolate and non-dairy whipped topping. I move things around so everything fits.
By six-fifteen I’m antsy. Usually Violet’s home by now, so I send her a message to check her status.
I get one back five minutes later:
Leaving work in 10!
It’s accompanied by a kissy face emoticon. That’s disappointing. It takes her a good twenty minutes to get home, and that’s in good weather. It started snowing again around three. It’s just flurries, but it’ll slow her down. That means she’ll be at least another forty minutes. If not longer. I stay busy by setting the table and lighting candles. I put the bottle of champagne on ice and uncork a Riesling.
At twenty to seven, I get another message from her:
Sorry, got tied up! Just walking out the door. Home soon <3
This is definitely not going the way I planned. I check on dinner. It’s still warm, so that’s good, but it’s been in the oven for almost an hour. I figure there’s nothing I can do but wait, so I flop down on the couch, turn on the TV, and channel surf.
Half an hour passes, and Violet’s still not home. I don’t want to annoy her, but I’m starting to worry. Just as I’m about to send her another message, the house alarm beeps.
“I’m home!” she calls.
I pick myself up off the couch, straighten my button down, which is now wrinkled, and greet her at the side door. She’s leaning against the wall, tugging off her knee-high boots. She shrugs out of her coat and lets it drop, along with her purse. On the floor beside her is a box of files.
She blows her hair out of her face and opens her arms, leaning forward as I step into
I decide to order takeout from her favorite restaurant, as well as a bottle of champagne, her favorite flowers, and some chocolates. That should cover all the bases and win back some of my lost points from this morning. I also recognize that this opportunity is a big deal for her, and I do want to celebrate her accomplishments. I get that right now this is what she wants, so I’ll support her. Her work ethic is honorable, if not always easy for me to handle.
After training I spend a few hours at Darren’s watching Toronto games and planning our strategy for tomorrow. I get home around four-thirty, which gives me plenty of time to get things set up for the romantic dinner. First I remove the cardboard effigies of myself from the front hall. The giant stuffed beaver finds a new home in the sitting room, which is where I discover a picnic-like set up in front of the fireplace.
My workout mats, covered with fluffy blankets and pillows, are laid out close to the fireplace—it’s gas so there’s no worry about burning down the house. Pink paper litters the surrounding area. I crouch and pick one up; it’s dick-shaped, with balls and everything. Some have little red capes glued to them in honor of Super MC.
It looks like half the work has already been done for me. Violet had some elaborate plans last night, it seems. I didn’t make it past the kitchen yesterday, too focused on getting the cardboard cutouts set up and readying the bedroom for a serious sex-a-thon, with only half an hour to accomplish it all.
Beside the pile of blankets is a box of Fruit Roll-Ups. I’m not sure what those are for, so I leave them where they are and make a trip to the wine cellar. Champagne never lasts long with Violet, so I want to have her favorite wine handy as well.
Once everything is organized, I shower and shave, throw clean sheets on the bed, and wait.
Dinner arrives promptly at six. I put everything in the oven on warm, apart from the salad, which goes in the fridge. It’s already full in there. Violet has some sort of fruit platter and a bunch of dips, including chocolate and non-dairy whipped topping. I move things around so everything fits.
By six-fifteen I’m antsy. Usually Violet’s home by now, so I send her a message to check her status.
I get one back five minutes later:
Leaving work in 10!
It’s accompanied by a kissy face emoticon. That’s disappointing. It takes her a good twenty minutes to get home, and that’s in good weather. It started snowing again around three. It’s just flurries, but it’ll slow her down. That means she’ll be at least another forty minutes. If not longer. I stay busy by setting the table and lighting candles. I put the bottle of champagne on ice and uncork a Riesling.
At twenty to seven, I get another message from her:
Sorry, got tied up! Just walking out the door. Home soon <3
This is definitely not going the way I planned. I check on dinner. It’s still warm, so that’s good, but it’s been in the oven for almost an hour. I figure there’s nothing I can do but wait, so I flop down on the couch, turn on the TV, and channel surf.
Half an hour passes, and Violet’s still not home. I don’t want to annoy her, but I’m starting to worry. Just as I’m about to send her another message, the house alarm beeps.
“I’m home!” she calls.
I pick myself up off the couch, straighten my button down, which is now wrinkled, and greet her at the side door. She’s leaning against the wall, tugging off her knee-high boots. She shrugs out of her coat and lets it drop, along with her purse. On the floor beside her is a box of files.
She blows her hair out of her face and opens her arms, leaning forward as I step into
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