My Failed Novel: Second Episode

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She woke up this morning in her bed, a smile on her face as she began the a big morning stretch. Out went her arms, her legs, her wiggling toes and her soft sigh of relief. She used took up the huge bed with her stretch, not worrying about hitting another bed partner. She waited to open her eyes as she layed there, outstretched, a trickle of light pouring out from beneath the blinds. King Henry the VIIIth mewed in anticipation for what she had been conditioned to believe would shortly be the long awaited breakfast. The snooze alarm finally broke her from her suspended animation. Releasing another sigh of joy as she greeted a wonderful morning, she snatched Henry from beside her bed, rolling back over and cuddling around her. King Henry began to purr, her eyes slowly opening and closing as the girl gave her her much sought after attention. Starting from her right ear and making her way down to her chin, using her nails to scratch Henry’s purr buttons. Henry loved this, loved the attention, and the extra room on the bed.

She kicked the sheets off and lay there in her pajamas. Well they weren’t your conventional pajamas, more like short sweat pants and a small shirt, no underwear. As she pulled herself up and threw her legs over the side of the bed, she let out another big stretch and another sigh of satisfaction. As she got up, she became excited for the refreshment that the hot shower promised. Breaking a path for the bathroom, she elegantly relieved herself of clothing, and turned on the taps. With her eyes shut tight, she proved to the high pressure shower-head that she was not afraid of it, nor her face, nor her gargling mouth. With a soapy loof, she then removed every blemish and dirt that clung like destitute lovers to her every epidermal cell. As she lathered herself up, she felt refreshed and renewed. Putting the loof down, she continued to cares her body with her bare hands, caressing her breasts, her thighs, her stomach, lightly passing over her labia, rubbing her neck, her back, her buttocks, and finally – with tight shut eyes – she washed her face, turned around, and rinsed herself off.

Stepping out of the shower, she barely dries herself off, briefly touching a few areas of her body, before drying her hair by rubbing and shaking it against the towel. Not bothering to put on clothes, she sways her way to the kitchen, on her way turning on the stereo. Shaking her butt to the music, she leans over and gives Henry’s outstretched nose a kiss.  Dancing her way through all the motions now, she opens the cat food and pours Henry an extra large serving, since today she’s feeling extra charitable. Grooving her way over to the cupboard, she momentarily breaks the dance routine to lean against the counter, step on her tip-toes, and reach – r r r e e ach – for a bowl and the box of cereal. With a spoon in hand, she bends down to where the cat is chowing down, and sings along with the song, spoon held like a microphone. Making her way to the fridge, she opens the door and has to lean forward to search for the milk. With the box of cereal under one arm, milk in one hand, bowl and spoon in the other, she waltzes over to the kitchen table. She continues to sing for Henry as she mixes everything together, not too much milk, since she hates it when the cereal gets soggy. With her hips confined to the seat, she resorts to moving the top half back and forth to the beat. Back and forth. Back and forth. Swaaayyyy to the beat. Not a care in the world. Eating her cereal, her cat purring and rubbing herself against her naked ankle. She finishes up her cereal, hops off the stool, and puts the bowl in the sink, with a rinse. The cat, meanwhile, has resorted to licking her paws and with satisfaction. Off to the bathroom, where she dries her hair and puts on her makeup. She gives herself a playful kiss in the mirror, before heading back to her bedroom to pick out an outfit. She models herself in the mirror, playfully asking the cat’s opinion, “Mr Henry, what do you think of this one? How does it make my ass look?” If panpsychism was true, and the air particles could think, they would all cluster around her gorgeous body and all say in unison “Marvelous!” while thanking their lucky stars they had been blown into this bedroom. Finally she decides to put some fabric on against her body. She picks red boyshorts, that perfectly conform to her bum. After squirming into them, her mons pubis is just barely detectable. Next she puts on a white t with red sleeves, no bra: her small firm breasts requiring no support; plus she feels extra sexy today. Finally, she picks a pair of simple jeans, tight, often times requiring the jaws of life to remove if wet. She gives herself one more check in the mirror, pleased with what looks back at her, gives King Henry a pat on the head, grabs her bag, puts on her shoes, and leaves her place, happy as a clam.

At least, this is how I imagine it. Your morning, and every morning after our break-up. Contrasted with my own, I begin to feel sick.

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About dontdontoperate

28 year old originally from Barrie, Ontario, Canada. H.B.Sc. from UofT with a major in chemistry and a double minor in philosophy and math. M.Sc. from UofT in physiology and neuroscience. Finished my Ph.D. in biomedical engineering at McMaster in the fall of 2013.
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