How My Husband Made My Most Lurid Fantasies Come True

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What’s that you said, dear husband? You’re going to take the kids out for dinner tonight? Then do the grocery shopping? Well, well, big guy, it seems that after 13 years of marriage, you still know how to turn me on. Don’t worry about me being lonely tonight. I have plans of my own. Big, dirty plans. Plans that involve me, the sofa, and chocolate. A ménage à trois, if you will.

You see, first I’m going to slowly slip off these jeans that I have been wearing all day. They are reminding me of the countless cookies I have eaten lately, and really, it is pissing me off. I am just going to leave them on the floor — for somebody else to pick up.

Then I’m going to take the biggest spoon I can find, get that container of ice cream I’ve hidden in the back of the freezer, and leave it on the counter. It takes time, you know, to get it soft and pliable enough to do just what I want. It will be waiting for me to dive in, but the moment has to be just right. I need to be able to scoop long, slow scoops. I like perfect balls that are soft at the edges, but firm in the middle. I don’t even need a bowl. Those tiny things are a waste of my time.

After I’ve had my way with the carton of Rocky Road, I’ll be all jacked-up on sugar and ready and willing to make some more bad decisions. This is probably when I’ll start dancing on the furniture even though doing so is one of the most forbidden activities in our house. You know why? It’s because I like to keep those springs nice and tight, just for me. I am the one who vacuums the cushions every week. I deserve a good jump on the sofa whenever I fucking please.

After that, I’m sure to be all sweaty, and I’ll have something long and hot on my mind: a bath. Yes, a long, hot bath is one of my most lurid fantasies. I will soak in silence, without an audience, without tiny fingers wiggling their way under the door. I can barely contain myself just thinking about it.

I won’t even look at those piles of laundry I never get around to folding. I’m not going to be touching those piles of bills stacked on the counter. I will be touching something else. Sometimes a woman has to please her own damn self. I’ll be holding onto my favorite device…you know, the one that streams Netflix and contains that book I just downloaded the other day and have been dying to read?

So have fun on your night out with the kids, dear husband. Don’t worry about me being lonely tonight. Take your time. And please, keep it down when you come in the door. I’m sure to be unconscious. Oh, and next week, when I take the kids out and leave you at home, do whatever you want. I won’t even leave a honey-do list. Just…please, no jumping on the couch. That bitch is mine.

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