Obama in My Bed

I don't need any more t-shirts.

But last time we were in New York, The CEO was packing up his case to leave our hotel room and tossed a white t-shirt into the corner.

"You're throwing it away?"

"I just bought new ones, so yeah, I'm leaving this one behind."

Then he kissed me, handing me a very fat envelope, and pressed his forehead into mine.

"I'll see you at the airport."

"See you there."

A week later he came over early in the morning and jumped into bed with me. I giggled and we made stupid conversation as he pushed my t-shirt up and sucked on my nipples.

The man spent a long time going down on me, and I congratulated myself on an excellent job of teaching him oral techniques that work.

He's so good at fucking me now, and it's easy and sweet and nice and a little bit sad all at once, but I usually manage to keep the mood light. With his cock pressing nicely against my G-spot, he pulled back and smiled down at me. He pushed the hair from my cheeks and said something about how rosy they were; about how nice I looked.

So...

"Do you like my t-shirt?"

"It's soft."

"It's yours."

"You stole my t-shirt?"

"I rescued it."

"Ahh-from New York. I remember. It smells good."

"That's because I haven't washed it. You smell really good, Mister."

Hopefully not too creepy. Hopefully he just finds it charming, like my other idiosyncrasies.

I threatened him yesterday that when Obama wins, he's going to have to fuck me while I wear my MoveOn.org t-shirt.

Yes, We Did!

He's coming over now. And Obama is stretched tight across my chest.