Stewed Tea He wasn’t one for baths. He’d said something about his testicles feel

Stewed Tea He wasn’t one for baths. He’d said something about his testicles feeling like teabags, and not particularly wanting to let them stew in the accumulated dirt of the day. Of course she’d then muttered something about how he had such a way with words, and avoided letting him see the eye roll.  But when she was done, and he was tired, he’d turned on the taps. When she’d been lying there, staring at the ceiling in the moments between the long, indulgent blinks she was so very much enjoying right that moment, he’d climbed up off the bed with a slight groan and made his way over to the bathroom, one hand walking along the wallpaper as he went.  A few minutes later the smell of lavender had wandered back without him, and she’d rolled onto her side, immediately made painfully aware of how much pain he’d just put her through. The dotted line of the whartenberg wheel that traced circles around her breasts; the enraged and raised flesh of her thighs where he’d used the stick; the heavy rouge of her bum. She groaned, stood up. Her wandering was less composed than his. She stumbled down the hall, steadying herself on the wall as if she’d just knocked back pints rather than been knocked around by such a lovely man. But she made it to the bathroom all the same, and the smile found her face all by itself. He was lying there, half in the water, head back and eyes closed. His legs were parted, inviting, and his cock was only half alseep, almost as much of an invitation. She walked the two steps to the edge and stepped over, sinking down and into him.  He wasn’t one for baths, but for her, he’d make an exception. For her, he’d stew. -- source link

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