Marji
Mr. Santana.
Broad shoulders.
Commanding timbre.
Full lips.
Dark, penetrating stare.
The feel of those lips on my hair and fingers makes me want them on other places, makes my skin yearn for more.
I wake from my restless sleep covered in perspiration as my hand snakes down my stomach and my fingers tease the waistband of my underwear. These aren't made of lace. These are ones I've had for years, boy shorts made of cotton. And as my dream fades—the one of Mr. Santana sitting on the chair in the darkened room directing my movements, his deep voice commanding the removal of my dress, leaving nothing but the lace thong and high heels, and telling me to come to him, not on my feet, but crawling on my knees—reality sets in. I'm not at Lace and Leather. I haven't been there since la
