I will be missing for 3 days. It will not be long enough.
On the fourth, the train will leave Cleveland Ave promptly at 8:32am. I will sit left back facing forward with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, wearing a rumpled pile of laundry smelling of sex, blood, jizz, and piss. The grey sky of the Pacific NorthWest will be bright blue after seeing only darkness for the last three days. My answer will have always been ‘Yes.’
Yes, I am a dirty girl. Yes, I remember your face when you are upset with me. Yes, I remember what happens when you are upset with me. Yes, I will be good, Master.
My hands will be folded on my lap, knees together, shoes touching. I will feel your juices ooze out of my pussy from involuntary spasms as the wet spot on my department store cotton panties grows larger with every bump, jostle and stop. I will be a cocktail of you; a mocktail of me. You will promise me Lloyd Center. I will be so proud to finally be yours.