I Don’t Need You To Marry Me Dear
But you can call me again if you want to
Look, you’re making this harder on yourself than you have to, harder than I take it myself.
I’m a big girl, I can handle not being your Miss Right — heck, I’m not even my own. I’m working shit out, all the time.
But you were there for me when I needed you, and that counts for something. If I were perfect, you wouldn’t even like me, and I would absolutely hate myself for it.
But no, you took me how I was, how I felt, and you let me through your door. Put me on your couch, listened to my rambling, and you dared to get me tipsy. That’s always a mistake, I get intense when I drink — but last night, it wasn’t a mistake.
We can use that, we can write this all off as a mistake, and you can tell me to get dressed. You can pull the blanket away, let me shiver in the morning cold, and I’ll get dressed of my own free will — I simply don’t want to freeze my naked butt off.
You can throw me out if you like — I don’t need to move in with you. I’ll be one of many lonely chicks out there, aimlessly walking through the streets as I try to come up with a better plan. I could take that just fine, if you feel the need to toss me out. I’ll even take the trash out as I leave, I’m cool like that.
But you know what? You could also let me stay, for now. This Saturday, make me feel like it is Sunday already, let’s just stay in bed. We could stay in here and talk things through, and I mean really talk things through. We could have so much sex before it’s even time for lunch, that neither of us feels ready to have another go at any of this.
Simply light-headed stupidity, and a headache that comes from your main headaches all going away. You could hold me in your arms, run your hand across my cheek, and then my cheeks.
You could be so done with touching my body that it seems like the most normal thing in the world — and that is when we order lunch. Takeout, something good, something that I would describe to my friends as better than the sex. Something dirty, something with more calories than I lost lying here, my legs spread wide open for you.
We will sit at the kitchen table because neither of us can stay in bed any longer, and we will desperately try to get a conversation going. Something stupid, something we are both way past, we know each other too well for empty small talk.
But we would need it, and we would make it work, pass the hour that it takes to clean the kitchen, have a shower, then clean the remnants of last night from the living room table.
I would help you get your couch back in order, and you would tell me that I don’t have to, then shrug when I shrug.
Eventually, I would have enough strength again to tease you, and I would be relentlessly nagging you. You wouldn’t like how low I would get, and you wouldn’t have the strength back yet to defend yourself and tease me back.
You would just take it, frown at me, try to turn it into a smile. And I would tease you for that, too, and call you ridiculous things like soft and caring, until I see the look in your eyes grow hard. I’ll act like I am sorry for just a second, and you will immediately grow soft again and act like I need a white knight to rescue me.
And I would laugh, so would you, realizing that I led you on this whole time. And you would grab my hair, pull my head back a little, and stare deep into my eyes with a look that I should be afraid of. You will push me down, on my knees, where I actually belong.
You would pull my pants down, and just when I think you’re thinking about fucking me again, you would slap my ass hard. You push my shoulders down, so that my hips are up in the air, and the next slap comes.
You say something about giving me what I deserve, and I will act as if it isn’t what I need. I will yelp, and call you something insulting, like being weak and hitting me like a girl.
And your next slap will come even harder, and now I will actually feel it burn. I won’t have to twist around and look at my ass in the mirror to know that the skin is reddened, and I will tell you that a real man would at least have the decency to pull my hair.
I won’t be ready to fuck again, but you won’t care, because your dick suddenly found some strength again. And you will lick me, make me realize how sensitive I really am, and that I couldn’t possibly handle you fucking me again.
So, naturally, I will tell you to fuck me, and that you’d better not stop until I tell you to.
And together, we will make it work, the angriest sex of the day, angrier even than I was yesterday when you almost didn’t get the hint. I will shower you in a torrent of insults that I had ready if you hadn’t grabbed my breasts in the very last second, just when I thought I might as well leave and fuck a random stranger in a bar.
I will grunt with all the anger that I had yesterday when I realized you knew exactly where my breaking point was, and that you pulled my leg and pushed me right until I couldn’t take it anymore.
You were cute, you were polite, and I really thought I would have to grab a pen and paper and write down for you what a lady really needs. And then, you kissed me on my neck, not even bothering to give me a cute kiss on my lips first.
And when you finally kissed my lips, I was so way past all that, and my panties were cooking the lid off. You knew, and you mistreated me like that, pulling them off slowly so that they burned every inch of my legs on their way down.
But then, you didn’t have it in you anymore to play things slow, and you started fucking me like a total slut. Not a single word of warning, you were right in me, and not a single point of question in your eyes. You knew what I wanted, and you didn’t care, and that was what I wanted. I wanted you to take me like I belonged to you, as if my wetness was a sign that you were in control.
And you made use of that, repeatedly, energetically — just like I had always dreamed you would. You fucked me like I didn’t matter, and that mattered to me, just like that look in your eyes that told me you had played this night through in your brain so many times before.
You probably had all sorts of plans for me, with all the eventualities taken care of, and many a night of practice rounds as you closed your eyes and stroked your dick. Softball rounds like massaging my feet as we sip on wine, and hardball rounds where I snuggle up to you unasked and tell you to not get any ideas at first.
But you were overwhelmed by how overwhelmingly thirsty I was, and I caught you by surprise. I think I am to blame a bit for how quickly everything escalated; I had barely walked through your door before I started flirting with you.
And we flirted hard, more than we ever do at the office, none of that cute stuff that you hit me with when we know everyone is looking. None of this bringing each other coffee, making jokes that get the others horny more than us, none of these daring touching of our feet under the table when a meeting is particularly boring.
All that never meant anything, and that’s what I like so much about you. You can handle me during the day, and you don’t even get any ideas, you just play things by ear. You go home in the evening, just like I do, and you laugh about yourself and the tricks you played on me. I know, because I do the same.
But last night, you were there for me when I actually needed you, leaned on you, relied on you. You were there, and that’s the reason why I am still here this morning, looking into your cute face that looks at me so full of worry.
But trust me, you don’t have to, we are still just coworkers after all of this. If you promise to take care of me this weekend, I promise you that I won’t be back here for a long time after. I will leave you alone, and I will understand when you stop flirting with me for a while, and when you’ll be strangely awkward with me during lunch.
The others will probably be able to tell, just by how you change around me — but that’ll be fine, we can simply ignore it when they ask and tease and create all sorts of rumors.
And then, you’ll find your flow again, where you can tease me like you used to, and where our boss looks over at us all annoyed because we turn the meeting room into a dance floor.
And I can promise you this: it’ll be at least a month before I lie here again, in your bed, and silently beg you not to throw me out.
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I Don’t Need You To Marry Me Dear
