Aftercare, shmaftercare.

It was after that exhilaratingly painful scene wherein I’d been bombarded with paintballs that I sought him out for some aftercare.

A blanket, some chocolate, a cuddle, a pat on the head and a concerned “are you okay?”, maybe even an “I’m so proud of you!” glowing bit of praise.

Visions of my muchly deserved aftercare danced in my head.

I found him and I stood before him, grinning, expectant, giddy, waiting.

He said:

“Bitch, go get me the bug spray. I’m getting bit.”

o.0

I luffs him. The fucker.

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