wandering in their two-ounce forms, but if they can see me, their abilities are one-sided. I drop once more onto the bed, eager to please myself before I shower. It is a morning ritual to release endorphins. There is a sense of power in masturbation—a free, healthy high I can induce on myself. Compared to self-destructive, risky, and usually expensive, vices that sometimes require the involvement of another being, having sex with myself is an intense and safe way to get my blood flowing. If the hallways of my mansion do creep with another presence, then I become an exhibitionist almost every morning. Bringing my knees firmly to my chest, holding my long legs hard against my breasts with my left arm, I use my right arm to reach and fondle myself. My fingers are long and slightly ribbed artist hands that could be mistaken for a man’s touch.
I lick my fingers before rubbing their soft tips over the most sensitive spots. Starting at my nipples, I then drag my fingers down to my womanhood, circling my gem with my wet fingers like a ridged tongue turning chills of cold discomfort into flaming ecstasy. I squirm onto my rear, relaxing my legs into a straddle position arching my back and flexing my ass, as I build up the tension to later release. My ass tightens and retracts, causing my body to lift inches off the bed. I do this until I build enough heat and blood surge in my groin to let loose a climax. The satin sheets become damp with sweat below me as I start to cum. I moan loudly into my large vacant home, as the thick walls of my bedroom drown out the sound from reaching far beyond my immediate space. All the veins in my now-raw areas flush with the heat of excitement.
This high creates a bit more momentum to propel me into my day, as long as I do not allow it to relax me. I force myself to my feet to pursue the next morning ritual, which is getting ready for work. Perhaps I take a bit long during my daily transformation, but it isn’t vanity that encourages these lengthy changeovers. I’m truly interested in the upkeep and appearance of virtually everything around me. If I’m left in any space long enough to claim it, I will make an effort to enhance that space, that is my way, and my physical appearance is no exception. As an art enthusiast, I’m usually unsatisfied with all of my artistic endeavors, and I can be merciless picking at what I perceive to be flaws, especially when it comes to my look. I believe that things that seem trivial to most sometimes have a deeper effect on an artist’s mentality because some artists are innately intoned to fine details. This seems especially true for profound writers; they can become inundated with minutiae detail to the point of torture. For today’s look, I paint my face with an array of shimmering neutral colors, adding the charcoal powder to my eyebrows to deepen the definition of my arch, and comb my lashes with thick and lengthening black onyx mascara. While scrutinizing, there could be more symmetry regarding my winged eyeliner, and my foundation isn’t as flush as I’d like, but it’ll suffice.
Lost in this morning transition, I feel a sudden surge of thought about last night’s episode. Something was puzzling about the events of my dream. I cannot remember it, but I recall the digital clock numbers burning the times of night into my eyes every time I stirred from sleep.
I even woke Bruce several times last night in a sweaty fright. Panic attacks often wake me, and I am lucky that Bruce is an understanding husband. The demands of my job and the shrewd memories of my childhood manifest in all forms of anxiety. I have learned to deal with it to a certain degree, and so has he. I occasionally take sleep aids to help rid my anxiety long enough to drift from the chaos of my analytical frame of mind, but I am a bit wary of most prescription drugs, and so they’re typically over the counter or herbal sleep aids.
The longer I stray from the realm of my sleep, the less I tend to remember. This is not a bad thing. I couldn’t see the benefit in allowing it to corrupt my day as well. I’m adept at distracting myself until their hold on my emotions stops influencing my mood. Sensual dreams are a bit different because I inadvertently feel overcome by nymphomania for hours of sexual frustration, whether I fully recall the dream or not.
Bruce is capable of falling back into slumber when I wake him, and he doesn’t seem particularly affected by his dreams. Fortunately, he’s been a morning person all the years I have known him, many of which we bedded together. God blessed me with an amazing husband during this existence. It is a wonder how he deals with so many of my idiosyncrasies as graceful as he does. My unconventional undertones can be a bit difficult for some people, even him at times, but he knows and appreciates that I every so often need to relish in eccentricities to break the monotony of life, and he handles my sleep disorders with great resilience and compassion.
II
The Professional Woman
We are treated to such an enchanting and picturesque sight during New England winters. There is constant change in the rolling hills, accompanied by various types of precipitation. The weather is cold and crisp today; white-blanketed trees, beautiful rock formations, and old Victorian homes serve as a magnificent backdrop during my long drive. In the dead of winter, it is as if the gods decided to trace and magnify each line to mark it in perfect crystalline white. The myriad fixtures on the highway, ice statues, some with a hint of light blue, are entrancing on the eyes. The hollow trees, if not standing so tall and glorious above me, would seem like skeletons, once fruitful with bright foliage are now leafless and empty. Even the bluest skies cannot refuse the beautiful gloom of winter. I half wonder if it is the danger of driving in such weather conditions or nature’s deceptive tranquility that cause people to drive so slowly on these days.
At this moment, traffic at a full halt, so I manage to reach into my purse and apply some more final touches to my daily transformation while my car is infused with vivid natural lighting. I dab blush powder slightly over my nose and cheeks to brighten my foundation, as I amuse myself with a full reach-around of my tightly fastened hair, its weight already seeming to pull on my neckline. In my peripheral vision, I catch a glimpse of the cars starting to move around mine impatiently. Alas, I have briefly become one of the reasons traffic is slowed instead of my typical speed-thirsty self who’d usually find a parade of cars following my lead. The honking and middle fingers of New Englanders aimed in my direction during this lovely morning traffic are met with smirks that work like gasoline on a fire that is the typical Mass-hole temper.
My phone rings as I step out of the car, but I let it ring while attempting to iron out any visible creases in my skirt. Using the one area of my Lexus not covered in sludge as an imprecise mirror, I unfold the larger tucks of my suit coat to better compliment my waistline. It’s Rose, my secretary. She has a knack for calling me at the most inconvenient times. That or I am simply annoyed that there are not many times I enjoy hearing her high-pitched, overly flamboyant voice so early in the day.
“Yes, Rose?” I answer impatiently, hoping to deter her from keeping me long. “I am on my way to a closing. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Elliot will be running late,” she replies, “and needs you to wait for him before you make your closing.” His negligence is frustrating, but I am useless without my lawyer present in most cases. I am not sure if I need him in this particular case because I was careless regarding their file. However, better to have him and not need him, than need him and not have him.
The conversation is cut short as I impatiently stride into my client’s office. At first glimpse, the office is dusky and disorganized. There are too many uncomfortable plastic chairs scattered about a small area with no practical placement. The walls are busy with patches of yellow cigarette stains that are visually unpleasing. In an instant assessment, the business demands heavy aesthetic transformations. I am the CEO of a business consultant corporation called Executive Business Correspondence. I am the founding owner and have a handful of executive consultants to handle much of the work, but I still enjoy the rush of deadlines and new clients, big or small.
As a consultant, my credibility is based on my ability to run my own business. This also enables me to relate to my clients as a fellow company owner. I have my surveyors follow guidelines with instructions once the businesses are evaluated by some of my top financial
