I've been sitting on this cushion for two hours.
Two hours.
And I've accomplished approximately nothing.
The cushion is helping… actually helping a lot. Without it, I'd probably be standing at my desk like some kind of eccentric architect who's philosophically opposed to chairs. As it is, I can sit relatively comfortably despite the persistent ache in my muscles that reminds me exactly why I need the cushion in the first place.
Which is part of the problem.
Because every time I shift in my seat, every time I feel that dull soreness, my brain immediately supplies vivid, detailed memories of how I got this sore.
Bael's hands gripping my hips.
The relentless rhythm he set.
The way he fucked me against the shower wall this morning like he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
The sounds I made.
God, the sounds.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to physically block out the memories.
Doesn't work.
