an Italian Sunday in bed…

Sunday…3:43pm…still in bed, your hand rubbing the stubble on his cheek as he sleeps softly, the smell of his cologne, Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille, burning off of his skin. Smiling, you remember the night before…Fresh oysters, several bottles of red wine in some loud, little bar where your friends were shouting and dancing with the sensual beats of the DJ spinning Federico Aubele’s Postales.


You look down, past your smooth stomach and bare navel and realize…you never took off your new Balenciaga shoes…a late night gift he slipped onto your feet right before you left the house in the pouring rain. Laughing to yourself, you kick him gently with the heel of the purple shoe, waking him up.

He yawns gently as he turns, the sheet falling slowly to the floor revealing the tanned skin of his ass tightly bound in the Jam briefs you bought for him two days before and secretly slipped in his briefcase. Snapping the band of the underwear, your finger stops to rest on one of the small dimples on the low of his back. And then…you lean in against him as he pulls out the carry out menu for the Chinese restaurant down the street. You smirk, shaking your head like a little girl…”No Chinese.” You say….”I want pizza.”

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