I’m curled up in bed after he’s left, wearing the heavy lined shirt I gave him for Christmas. He hasn’t worn it yet, so it doesn’t smell like him, but I remember the shape of it on his shoulders when he tried it on, those shoulders that I clutch as I strain myself towards him, his voice in my ear, “Cum for me, my little bitch,”; remember the way the cuffs lay against his wrists, those long bones that I stroke absently as we drive somewhere, his hand on my thigh; remember the curl of hair on his chest and belly peeking through the shirt’s opening, imagining rubbing my face against the soft fur of him, inhaling him; and I hug it to myself, letting it envelope my warm, naked body. And then I sit up, and grab my phone, and snap this picture to send to him, because he’s only been gone ten minutes, and he’ll be back in a couple of days, but I already miss him.
