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It's John's birthday today, and, relatedly, when he reaches his locker after his last class of the day, there's a paper-wrapped bouquet of roses taped to it. The paper is white; the roses are red, white, and pink, three each, their heads full and nodding. A satiny pink ribbon holds the whole thing together, trailing long tails toward the floor.
The corner of a pastel pink envelope peeks out from behind this assemblage, matching the colour of the ribbon.
John grins back at her. (She's cute when she wiggles. Also, she's hot. And naked still. And his.)
"I will return shortly with breakfast. Love you!" she says, giving him a quick hug and then wiggling her way out of bed.
"I'm glad!" he says, back. (Wincing softly to himself thankfully out of her view. He really owes saying more than just that to her at this point.)
He watches her leave, and then gets out of bed to head for the bathroom first, doing his best to think about the hot things that he's about to do, and not the mistakes that he's made. In theory, it's not that bad a mistake, he supposes. The real problem was that he couldn't stop thinking about it and it messed up his ability to have fun with her (and her to have fun with him, for that matter). Some part of him does wish he could have just told her to shut up and suck his dick when he had that thought (she would have found it hot, right? It seems like the sort of thing she'd find hot) but using his control over her to prevent her from arguing with him (or... well... it wasn't really arguing but it was something at least) is the sort of thing evil mind controllers do. (Maybe under controlled conditions, because it does sound hot). But still. He was supposed to stop dwelling on this, right? Instead he should go sit down in this sitting room. (And grab a book to distract himself. Actually, now that he thinks of it, some part of him wishes he could have a newspaper, which would fit the scenario much better, but he does hot have such a thing.)
The sitting room has a coffee table that does not seem like it would easily fit a Rosy underneath, or at least not a Rosy sucking his dick. That's... a problem. He looks around the room, but doesn't see an obvious solution to this problem. (Fuck. Fuck.) Should he bring something in from another room? He has no idea where to go and what to even do about that. (Fuck!) The best he can do right now is flump down in the biggest coziest armchair, pull out his book, and try to distract himself with his book. Hopefully Rosy will be back soon, and she can tell him what she thinks they should do, since she knows the house better.
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