No help. Oh, and I can’t relax. I eyeball the clock. It practically screams 6:04 AM. With the day ahead and worrying about Danny in the Show-Me-Stat..., I’m not going to get back to sleep. I swing my legs to the floor and run my hands down them. Yikes. I need a shave. Why? The only male the stubble ever bothers is Danny. I grab my running shorts and a tank top off the chair and slide into them. I keep a treadmill in the spare bedroom so I can run while Danny eats his breakfast. He has a little. But I especially love when your eyes roll into the back of your head and you moan my name.Not sure if it’s like permission, or a plea, but it works either way.Now, I am not slow. I am not gentle. I am not patient.I reposition myself, watch you bite your lip, and then hammer at you, driving you down into the bed hard, and deep, and each thrust punctuated by a gasp or moan or squeak from you, and the occasional grunt from me.You were always better at expressing sexual gratification than me. I. More

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