12-27-2018, 12:20 AM
She watches as the bustle of the Market mingles with the consequences of a busy night to shatter a bowl and produce an irritated expression. Although half of his face is hidden by the shadow of a hood and unnecessary sunglasses, she can picture the twist of his mouth and the way his eyebrows might draw together. It brings a smirk to her full lips, though her own face is shadowed by the brim of her gray hat. Long, dark, wavy locks flow from beneath said hat, catching the attention of some random self-proclaimed ‘hipster’ getting his groceries from the Farmer’s Market because “we should always help the locals.” Wishbone pays him no mind, instead choosing to slip along the opposite wall of a photography booth in order to avoid his eyes.
After all this time, she’s not about to make her reappearance as uneventful as a glimpse caught between prints of two rhinoceroses mating and a second-generation Native American selling beads from South Dakota.
She knew she’d find him here — probably escaping the latest Friday-night fuck — and she’d been right. For a few blissful weeks (okay, maybe months) it had been their weekend routine: spend the night bruising all the places clothing would normally hide, wake up early Saturday morning and walk the Market until Ivar found the most perfect companion, splurge on either homemade breakfast muffins or a burrito from the truck, and then head home to spend the rest of the day bruising each other in all the places clothing wouldn’t hide.
As he settles at a table nearby, his mouth full of the burrito (double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes), she peels herself away from the stream of Market-goers. The food truck employee gives her a wave from the distance and Wishbone gives a twirl of her nude-manicured fingers even while her hazel eyes, hidden behind a pair of aviators, remain fixed to Ivar.
“You missed some cheese on your dick,” she says casually. Her gaze drops to the few shards of cheese that had fallen onto the crotch of his pants and another smirk dances across her mouth. Dark ankle booties bring Wishbone closer so she can slide easily into the seat across from Ivar, careful not to disturb the important package nestled in the chair alongside both of them. Two coy words glide from her mouth simply, though there’s the hint of a thousand more words behind them. “Hello, Ivar.”
her outfit: xxx
@[Ivar]
After all this time, she’s not about to make her reappearance as uneventful as a glimpse caught between prints of two rhinoceroses mating and a second-generation Native American selling beads from South Dakota.
She knew she’d find him here — probably escaping the latest Friday-night fuck — and she’d been right. For a few blissful weeks (okay, maybe months) it had been their weekend routine: spend the night bruising all the places clothing would normally hide, wake up early Saturday morning and walk the Market until Ivar found the most perfect companion, splurge on either homemade breakfast muffins or a burrito from the truck, and then head home to spend the rest of the day bruising each other in all the places clothing wouldn’t hide.
As he settles at a table nearby, his mouth full of the burrito (double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes), she peels herself away from the stream of Market-goers. The food truck employee gives her a wave from the distance and Wishbone gives a twirl of her nude-manicured fingers even while her hazel eyes, hidden behind a pair of aviators, remain fixed to Ivar.
“You missed some cheese on your dick,” she says casually. Her gaze drops to the few shards of cheese that had fallen onto the crotch of his pants and another smirk dances across her mouth. Dark ankle booties bring Wishbone closer so she can slide easily into the seat across from Ivar, careful not to disturb the important package nestled in the chair alongside both of them. Two coy words glide from her mouth simply, though there’s the hint of a thousand more words behind them. “Hello, Ivar.”
her outfit: xxx
@[Ivar]