Rosalia
I didn’t watch him this time, but I heard him. I think anyone on the upper floor heard him—I was halfway down the hall when I heard the strangled groan that I recognize now. I felt that answering ache between my thighs, imagining him in front of the fire, his c**k in his hand as he frantically touched it, thinking of me.
He must have been thinking of me. Just as I’m sure now that he must have been watching me that day in his office, while I was out by the pool. It gives me a wicked, delicious thrill to think of turning him on like that, making him lose control. It makes me wonder what he would do if he caught me watching him. Would he punish me? What would he do for a punishment if he did?
My fevered imagination runs wild when I go to bed, as he instructed me, confusion warring
