Worse for wear

Today one woke up, the birds were singing, the sun was shining and the only pain was the self inflicted kind from the gym yesterday. In sharp contrast He came home looking more than a little worse for wear. Of course there were plans for today; a quick grocery shop before everything closes back down for Easter.... Happy Easter by the way... and assembling all those blasted shelves for His vast (and still expanding) game collection. Taking one look at His grey tinged face, we made a quick run to the shops for supplies before he collapsed and one gave up any hope of reclaiming part of our tiny domicile.

Instead we ate a naughty breakfast that featured real bacon, the streaky kind that oozes fat as it fries... shudders with pleasure at the very thought... and moving Him back to the horizontal embrace of the bed. He rallied long enough to engage in some aggressive sexcapades... it's amazing how he can always rally for sex... before dying for the rest of the morning. It left one to do a little laundry, catch some sun, have some lunch and read a book. It was all very peaceful.

So peaceful in fact that one slid into the bedroom for a snooze, only to find the patient awake. A state that He managed to handle for long enough to try and remove both nipples... for some reason his fevered hearing interpreted the plaintive mewling cries as please Sir, more Sir. OK there was a hell of an orgasm and one did pass out for a deep post coital snooze, but damn it, the nipples are not speaking to either of us.

He rallied in the evening long enough to call in sick and try to make one a better offer than going to the gym. Damn it! There is nothing worse than being caught between two endorphin sources. In the end the guilt over the illicit bacon butties won out. But only because there had been extra carbs ingested to get through the heavy leg work and tomorrows run. OK the nipples might have put in an avoidance vote, but that was just fear talking... the body dismissed that one out of hand.

So there we are. One still sick, no shelves, our tiny domicile starting to look like one of those places that hoarders live in... you know the kind, walkways made between towering stacks of games... but both of us mildly sexually sated.

Meh who needs living space so long as you can still get to the bed

Whisper one small slave does... those games have got to go