So you've just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn't love you. In fact, he has odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.
So you've just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn't love you. In fact, he has odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.
Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high.
Don't get your panties in such a twist... and give me back mine.
Supposing I've said I hate him, or worse still, that I love him, in my sleep.
He's naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone. Jeez, he looks so freaking hot. My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His over-whelming good looks maybe? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger against his lower lip? I wish he'd stop doing that.
Holy shit. What does that mean? Does he white-slave small children to some God-forsaken part of the planet?
You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince
I am going to have coffee with Christian Grey... and I hate coffee.
I gasp, and I'm Eve in the Garden of Eden, and he's the serpent, and I cannot resist.
I struggle to keep up with him because my wits have been thoroughly and royally scattered all over the floor and walls of elevator three in the Heathman Hotel.
Inside me! I gasp, and all the muscles deep in my belly clench. My inner goddess is doing the dance of the seven veils.
Interviews seem like such artificial situations, everyone on their best behavior trying desperately to hide behind a professional facade. Did my face fit? I shall have to wait and see.
I've kissed a prince, Mom. I hope it doesn't turn into a frog.
Men aren't really complicated, Ana, honey. They are very simple, literal creatures. They usually mean what they say. And we spend hours trying to analyze what they've said - when really it's obvious. If I were you, I'd take him literally. That might help.
My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five year old.
My subconscious is furious, medusa-like in her anger, hair flying, her hands clenched around her face like Edvard Munch's Scream.
Oh...a lot of one and some of the other.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'm wondering idly if that's legal.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories