Nape
February 26th 2008 04:20
It was the nape of your neck that made me do it and I shall have to tell the bank manager the truth. I’m waiting for him now. I am nervous because I will have to explain my regrettable, unforgettable actions.
I’m waiting for the bank manager, who will come blustery and wild eyed, demanding an explanation for these outrageous accusations. He will want to know what I had been thinking when I did what I just did.
I will have to tell the squat, bull throated bank manager that I was thinking about the nape of your neck.
I will explain to the fuming, flame haired bank manager that while I was lamenting my neglect of that salty, smooth, precious desert of golden promise, I had stretched out my arms and wound them tightly round the shoulders of the man in front of me.
Then tracing my eager wet tongue along the tiny track of skin that teased between starched collar and crisp crew cut, I had feasted on his freckled flesh .
I was trying to make amends; regretting my oversight, chiding my forgetfulness.
I was celebrating the beautifully soft, smoothly precious desert of perfect, sun kissed expanse that is the nape of your neck … by proxy.
It will be difficult to explain, I’ll admit that.
Of course, I said Sorry, sorry, sorry to the man in the queue (once I had regained my senses).
No worries he said with a pat of my hand. I’ll be dining out on this for years. The bank manager doesn’t look too happy, but.
It was the nape of your neck that made me do it and it is this that I must confess to the bank manager.
Forever lost to me is that dreamy desert of speckled glory that is the nape of your neck and I will have to explain it all to the bank manager, my husband - who had been waiting meekly to lunch me for my birthday.
I’m waiting for the bank manager, who will come blustery and wild eyed, demanding an explanation for these outrageous accusations. He will want to know what I had been thinking when I did what I just did.
I will have to tell the squat, bull throated bank manager that I was thinking about the nape of your neck.
I will explain to the fuming, flame haired bank manager that while I was lamenting my neglect of that salty, smooth, precious desert of golden promise, I had stretched out my arms and wound them tightly round the shoulders of the man in front of me.
Then tracing my eager wet tongue along the tiny track of skin that teased between starched collar and crisp crew cut, I had feasted on his freckled flesh .
I was trying to make amends; regretting my oversight, chiding my forgetfulness.
I was celebrating the beautifully soft, smoothly precious desert of perfect, sun kissed expanse that is the nape of your neck … by proxy.
It will be difficult to explain, I’ll admit that.
Of course, I said Sorry, sorry, sorry to the man in the queue (once I had regained my senses).
No worries he said with a pat of my hand. I’ll be dining out on this for years. The bank manager doesn’t look too happy, but.
It was the nape of your neck that made me do it and it is this that I must confess to the bank manager.
Forever lost to me is that dreamy desert of speckled glory that is the nape of your neck and I will have to explain it all to the bank manager, my husband - who had been waiting meekly to lunch me for my birthday.
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