Zach
When the end of yet another long week finally arrived, I headed home with a briefcase full of half-finished outlines, and poems to review.
Not that I could focus on any of it.
With Poppy around—and even when she wasn"t—I spent my time drifting between a sad attempt at concentrating on my work and fantasizing about calling her into my office just to bend her pliable body over my desk and take her in every way I"d imagined.
And so far?
I"d done a lot of imagining.
Every time I found a free moment, it felt like she was the only thing to fill my mind. When I read, I compared the prose to her own work. When I walked down the street, every woman I saw was held in contrast to her.
And even that wouldn"t be so bad if it weren"t for the constant stream of fantasies that ran through
