Lynn's Journey Pt. 07

I've done this for months.... fuck, years for some of it. Maybe I am stronger than I think. Smarter? I don't fucking know. At this point, I don't care. I just want to cum, the Sir way. Not an orgasm. To CUM.

And a journal assignment to essentially document all my overthinking... the day after being told to stop over thinking. What the fuck. There's a point to this, there always is, but god damnit. Which is it? Probably an exercise in control.

Taking the kids to school. I'll be damned if they don't link road rage and sexual frustration soon.

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Kids deposited. 'Do not cum' mantra playing in my head. Snuck off to my bedroom to watch the video before I shower.

A purple colored cold wax?! Girl is missing out on the joys of the painfully thrilling amber hot wax like I get. The bite of heat as it's spread on my pussy and radiates to my clit. The wait for it to cool accompanied with the little pats to make sure it's cool enough to be torn off. The sting when it's removed, then the blast of cold air... especially now in winter... then being replaced with the nurturing soft, warm pressure of her hand... over and over.

Watching more. Patting myself when she is pat. Pinching my skin where she gets the wax removed. Do not cum. For the love of Christ, do not cum.

That finger to separate the lips is the best part. The hot wax tapping on one side. Forbiddingly exquisite pressure on the other. And cupping her pussy waiting for the wax. Pulling the skin taut. Tapping.

This when I need to tell my girl this feels good. It does. I want more. "Can I have a little more pressure? It helps." Simple sentence. I can do this. Because when she removes her hand, and the wax, it's like removing a clip and if done during the worst/best part near the pelvic bone.... that's when I'll cum. I already have her do that part last because I like it the best. It hurts. She has to use her hand a lot. She has to use the applicator precisely because of gravity. And the little pricks of the tweezers? Divine.

But not as divine as the post-waxing oil rub. I don't need the oil right now. I only have to use my own wetness. Whispered 'Thank you, Sirs' and breath ragged. I cannot cum, but that doesn't stop me from wanting Sir's mouth sucking my pussy.

Deep breaths. Shower time and another commute. Do not take the cobblestone street today.

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In the shower, exfoliated everywhere. I could not help but grab at my hips and ass more than I should. Water bill be damned. Residual effects of that video. God, I miss being grabbed like this. The feel of my tits. The water in my skin. I feel sexy. I miss being physically appreciated. Maybe I should move to be near you. Ha.

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Commute to work. Transition to the public part of my double agent persona. Listening to my techno too loud. The battle music. The repetitive beat. Perfect work prep tunes. Prepare for battle. Finding joy in stupidity. Another day of survival in the orange walled hell.

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Turn my favorite corner into the office and greeted with a line of folks with questions not to mention the IM questions. They were stacked up like it was a surprise party. Not even a chance to execute the empty good morning rituals. The war music was a good call. The questions, dumb. They get short answers, but nice tones.

Have you written a service ticket? Let Angela know?

Does Angela know?

Have you restarted your laptop? Has Angela called IT?

Did you see the email I sent? It's been reported.

Sorry, PTO and payroll is Angela's thing.

Actually, where is Angela? Let's find her.

And I lead the sheep to the rightful shepherd. None of this shit is my job. If it was, they wouldn't have these questions. They wouldn't dare to stop working because they didn't want to push a button. I keep the anger inside. This is not their fault. We turn the corner, empty pod. The hunt continues. eight people, myself included, not working. I'm pissed. The computer resets are easy, I handle those. six to go. I explain to just keep truckin' on other things until she comes back. Some listen, some don't. I've got my own shit to do and this is interrupting my waxing planning multitasking plan.

She's done gossiping with the sales floor people, so I give her the to-do list. She's half listening, gets a call and says it's important and asks me to handle things. This is when I stop and assess. Do I say no? Fuck it. "Actually, no. I have production issues to clear and I'm not comfortable with the payroll issues of my peers."

Sit down. Want to dance. That was one nice fuck you. She takes the call. Chats with her daughter for like 30 minutes. It's stupid shit too. No crisis. People come to the pod, she shoos them away, so of course they come to me. I deflect yet again. Then I get the cue that it's lunch time. She leaves at 11. "It's going to be a little bit. Have fun making more money than me!" she chimes with her friends from downstairs. I quietly pray she gets a random drug test soon.

I want to light a car on fire.

Instead, I say fuck it and work. Haze of Spotify and Jira. Heaven.

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I look up, women's MMA is on the TVs. Time to internally smut away. If Rhonda was my waxer... damn.

So I think about how I present myself in the lobby. Relaxed. Confident. In control. Inside I'm a ball of nerves but I'll be damned if it reaches the outer shell. Just like work. Can't let the troops know I'm a horny hot mess most the time.

Warm smile. Eye contact. The usual friendly wave. This time I'll touch her shoulder and tell her it's great to see her again. I'll wear my exercise pants. The ones that make my ass look stellar so even if things don't work I'll look and feel great. I can take a nervous approach to the services talk and just explain I need more pressure applied. That it's, OK to be a little aggressive.

"Last time was great but do you think you can put more pressure on the area or do something to stimulate more blood flow? The bounce back time was not where I wanted it to be."

"Adding more pressure definitely helps redirect the pain. Can you really press down to see if that helps?"

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Lunch time is over for the troops. Back to questions chaos. Football is on though. Why in the hell are we even watching any of this? The change from the usual Center propaganda is nice but I can only see so many shitty restaurant and male enhancement commercials. At least the cute chick from Service walked by. Ass for days.

People still being sent to me by Angela. Allegedly she's working on re-org items. I'm sure I'll hear about it later when she can't pull numbers for this afternoon. I just want to work tickets, listen to my tunes, and think about the waxing.

I practice my eye contact and smiles with people as they stop by and decide I will wear my hair down during the wax. I can move my head easier. I want to watch.

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If I have to explain to someone how to do their job one more time I might snap. I walk outside to sneak a smoke and buy Funions.

I got a call from my son's school. He claimed to be sick. My ass. The husband downloaded a new game for the Nintendo Switch last night. I explain to the nurse that it sounded like a case of 'Nintendo Fever' and that he's just going to have to tough it out.

I start to walk back to the center, practicing how I want to walk as I walk in front of her into the waxing room. Shoulders back, head up, little wiggle of my hips and a longer stride. Confident. Kind of like ladies at awards shows, but less sass.

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Text from my daughter. She scored a 1290 on her PSAT. I want to shout it to the world. I'm so happy for her. I sit at my desk trying to get my work done because people have interrupted me enough. I have to get shit done.

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Figured out Postman! Boom! Turned my phone into a wifi hotspot to get around the firewalls. Asked Angela (again) about the IT request to have them add us to an exception list, she (again) had no clue. Was met with a bunch of "fuck IT, fuck HQ" responses. She also explained she was going to lose her job because she will have to do a Skype interview. We use Skype all the time, no idea what is going on, but she's ranting away about retaliation claims with HR and severance packages. I let her blow off steam. She's acting like my Mom. I can't do this. She asks me how I want her pod arranged because it "will be given to me soon" since I'm not old or "in the position of the fall guy". This is when I had to rant.

"Honey, the entire fate of the website business is not on your shoulders. It never has been. This job is to organize some of the people who make the updates. When sign-in is down... not on you. When someone can't get a hold of an agent... that IS you. Where is Joe? If you can't tell me, you can't tell them, and that's what makes you look like an ass."

Then she cried.

I didn't give a shit nor did I care. I just felt... empty. Her frustration is understandable, but water works? On me? Bitch please. My drunk husband has nearly broken my hand(s) every year for 10 years then lets divorce decrees expire and threatens to have his friends "take me out of town" if I leave or say anything to anyone. That's a feeling of being trapped that deserves a few tears. Not this self-induced cubicle chaos bullshit. She told us in a team meeting that she inherited millions from her Dad's company. I slid her some Kleenex, deal with the annoying temp that no one likes, and announced I'll be remote the rest of the day. Fuck this.

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Close the car door. Turn my phone to silent. Simply revel in the only noise: my long sigh. I take off my coat because I want to be cold. It's like an emotional jump start. I shiver. It reminds me of the hotel room. I turn on the car, the fan blows... yep, definitely reminds me of the hotel. A good cold. So I think about what I'm going to say to my waxing girl. The do or die moment.

The direct: Hey, so last time was great. Between then and now I have accepted that pain is kind of my jam, so when you do the final part, I'm going to cum. You're welcome to join me. Questions?

The porn indirect: You're great at what you do, I'm so excited to have you again.... with a little wink, a lean in, and hand on her arm again.

The passive: Hey, so last time, top notch, but is there any way to apply more pressure after the strip is removed? The times you did that I felt a lot better.

The holiday passive: Yeah, just the regular Brazilian. I've been so worked up with the holidays having this rush of endorphins is what I'm looking forward to the most. I mean it hurts, but not in a bad way.

The inquisition: So these waxings, I like them. Is that weird? I've always been a apprehensive to pain, but a dear friend of mine has shown me that sometimes you can feel REALLY good with a little pain here and there... you have anyone else like that?

The blunt: Yeah, Brazilian today, but to be upfront, I'm really fucking frustrated in the sex department right now and since I'm into the 50 Shades type shit, this will probably get me off. If that's weird, no problem. I can reschedule. If not, you do your thing, I'll do mine. Questions?

Car door opens. Son enters. Time to talk 6th grader.

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I have 30 minutes before the husband comes home and I have to make dinner. Fuck it. I'm ordering pizza. The daughter has a program tonight and I have to hand out flyers. But for now, the house is quiet. Just me, my laptop, and more thinking.

I flirt with the work re-org discussion from earlier, but screw that. I work hard. I try hard. And she's right - they always have a plan and if you are not in it, you never will be. Maybe I can get a job as a sous chef. I can always work in Sales. Meh.

How the fuck am I going to feel when I'm there, spread eagle, ready to cum with a near stranger? I think of now. Nervous. Needy. Unsure. Vulnerable. Embarrassed.

I think of how it would be if I turn off the thinking and just roll with it... like the chick in the video... all of the videos really. Relaxed for sure. Subtle excitement-induced anticipation. That's it really. It's that simple. Is it really that simple? I want to be in a space that is similar to how I feel after I was with Sir. FUCKING relaxed, composed, but this like heavy weightlessness.

I feel the weight of my body but not the weight of the world. 135lbs is a lot, but it's still pretty damn light. Where I move my arms and I feel the muscles involved doing their mechanics and I feel... graceful. Radiant even. Shit, I feel like a woman.

Queue the montage where I'm listening to some Shania Twain while emptying the dishwasher in my last moments of introverted happiness.

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Next time I beat myself up over my small tits, remember the woman who was shaped like the character Gru from Despicable Me. Other than that, the people at this program thing... this is like taking the O Face Game to a next level. I need mind bleach.

On the exterior, I was a gold star booster. Hauling chairs, handing out programs, and generally directing crowds. Even joked with an old lady about brandy! And watching my daughter... fuck I'm old. The juxtaposition of talking on Slack with a very pregnant coworker and the nerves of having a baby, then 10 hours later talking to a college counselor about MY baby... the circle of life is fucking wild. I really like to sleep and have money in the checking account so the baby fever was short lived. If it gets bad, I'll find another cat.

Speaking of cats, you know the phrase, "It's like herding cats"? No one tells you that coordinating grandmas and great-grandmas is unquestionably more difficult. My Mom fell asleep. A great grandma started knitting and singing. My mother-in-law was drunk. The other grandma wanted to talk politics. It was like a scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

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Face washed. Waiting for Room 104 to load on HBO. Fighting, FIGHTING, the urge to spellcheck this. The short burst additions throughout the day do not allow for much editing. I didn't even go back and read anything. I only saw the 3-4 lines before when I scrolled to the bottom.

Thoughts Before Bed: Do I tip her more than usual? Is this assignment going to affirm to Sir that I'm fucking weird or boring or not worth it? Now that I'm almost ready to hit send before bed, the dread is worse than that pussy picture.

What if tomorrow totally blows and I have nothing to say? What if this is TOO much info? Not the right kind? What if I wiggle the wrong way and she rips off my clit?!? OMG, what if this is like in 4th grade where I got so nervous in choir I throw up over the balcony during my solo.... but instead I ralph on her or everyone in the lobby. Note: Eat after.

I hunker down in my bed, exhale, fight yet another urge to read my rantings... think fuck it, add my signature, and finish this sentence before hitting send.

Always,

Kitten