So I am lying here in bed, pantsless, knees apart, typing on the laptop, listening to Jethro frustratedly try to help a completely unwilling Gwennie with her homework, after a series of events that are somewhat unbelievable even as I lie here in some pain.
I was depillitating myself (and that's not half as sexy as it might sound. I really should just go ahead and shell out the $35 for a Brazillian, but I'm cheap and addicted to mess and inconvenience) when Gwennie opened the door to my bedroom. She had resisted my help with her homework until the minute I was indisposed. I hollered at her to get out, and she threw one of her patented little hissyfits which aggravated me somewhat. I had called Jethro to see if he was on his way home from work, so I could go ahead and get started on my beautification (de-revolt-ification) processes. He was on his way, but hadn't quite arrived.
I'd managed to get Gwennie to exit my bedroom after threatening to make Armageddon look like a circus parade, and with only a minimal amount of cream having dropped onto my clit, when the doorbell rang.
I heard Gwennie and Emma stupidly unlocking the deadbolt without asking who was there first, so I threw on my bathrobe and bolted into the living room. Naturally, it was only Jethro carrying the mail, but one can't be too careful. However, I am wondering whether it was really worth the snatch full of burning I received moments later, which has continued on through the evening.