It was late when he left my apartment last night. Left me skin tingling, hair wild, satisfied, and half-asleep. And left not only me but an accidental memento.
The ring that fits his pinkie finger and is too big for my thumb.
I found it on the rumpled comforter. Knocked from his finger when his hands were busy. Left behind in a moment of pure focus that couldn’t be bothered to notice a ring slipping over a knuckle.
I threaded it onto my necklace, wearing the memory of him against my heart the whole day. A memory of whispered worship, fingernails on tender skin, lips against soles, my nipple between his fingers.
Does it make you hard, little cuck, knowing you’ll never have me and hearing about how he has? Seeing me in his ring, knowing that I found it in my bed. Knowing why I found it there.
And the closest you’ll get to any of it is this story. The closest you’ll get is when you give in to your urges and pay for the coconut oil he’ll rub into my skin, the stockings he’ll roll slowly down, the chocolate he’ll place on my tongue, letting his thumb linger, savoring the feel of me. Tongue, then lips, then skin…