I had not eaten or drank anything all day. Yesterday was one month since my husband’s passing; food held no allure for me. A visitor stopped by in the afternoon, and it was probably the last person in the world that I wanted to see, yet in the queerest way I was thankful. I suddenly had the urge to lock-up the place I had been locked up in for three days, and go find something good out there. There must be a positive in this town, I thought.
In the beginning, I knew him only as Suman, from an insomnia group online, living 5000 miles away in the UK, and I was ignorant to the nuances of polyamorous relationships. He was handsome, intelligent, and funny from the first group message and pictures shared all around. Of course, he would be taken, the love of another, and I hadn't bothered for details. My understanding of polyamory was only in its definition, in black and white.
Our conversation had faded, with him being in the living room relaxing after the meal, and me cleaning up, and loading the dishwasher. It was the least I could do, as he had prepared the entire meal with almost no help from me, even though he'd worked many hours today. The rich aftertaste of African food, and that last sip of wine, still lingered pleasantly in my mouth, and the fragrances of the leftovers were enticing and warm. Though I was full, the food is so nourishing, so comforting, that you feel you could always have just a little more.
Leah's third orgasm had ripped, contracted, and buckled through her without mercy, and she slumped down, even more as Mike tenderly rubbed her ass. He pulled her, causing her to stand, and then turned her towards him. His eyes held hers as he pulled her head back by the hair, pulling her shirt to expose her breast and grip her nipple tightly until she inhaled sharply. He smiled, saying, "You love it, and you know it."
