On Friday, I went into the office for a few hours. I had a decent conversation with my guy for roughly two hours about work and us at his cubicle.
He looked at what I was wearing.
"You look great in your new jeans and beige sweater," he remarked. "Are you sore [from Wednesday]?"
"Nope, I'm good," I said. "I wasn't expecting you to try and fit your entire hand in me."
"I don't get fisting," he said. "I don't think it's possible."
"Not with me and the size of your hand, that's for certain," I said, which made us both smile.
He continued to look at me.
"Have you lost more weight?" he remarked.
"Yes, this sweater is roomier than I remember it to be. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's all good," he reinforced.
He looked at my office chair.
"Why do you sit on a cushion?" he asked me.
"It has nothing to do with my interest in spanking and the aftermath," I indicated, which made him smile. "Over the years, I don't have as much padding in my butt, so it gets numb after sitting for prolonged periods."
"You could do exercises for your glutes," he suggested.
"I used to do squats. They didn't help."
"I see," he remarked. "You have very athletic thighs."
Our time in the office on Friday would be the last time that we'd see each other for three weeks. He's on the road, and hopes to get a Skype chat in with me now and again.
"I would love to spank you in the backseat of my car, over my lap, when I get back from my trips," he said.
"I'd like that," I said, squeezing his hand.
