Confessions of a Mistress Pt 2

Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock ..... and let the drama continue

Written by 
Mimi St.Clair 
All rights reserved by 
Demedrius Charles Productions 

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. That’s the sound my clock makes. I glance over at it. Perched righteously on the mantle, glaring back at me. Daring me. Willing me. Encouraging me? Call him, it whispers. I stick my finger in my ear. Huh, I must be hearing things. But the ever irritating clock was correct. Sigh. I should give him a ring.
Its been three weeks since I last saw My Politician. Three weeks is not unusual. It was becoming more of a scheduled appointment really. More of a nuisance actually. Being a Politician’s Mistress came with sacrifices. Sacrifices I was prepared to make, have been making. It made unconventional sense when u look at it. He’s married, thankfully no kids. Or else my moral compass would be spinning out of control. Its already somewhat broken. He travels a lot and his office hours are insane. So once a month in the comfort of my arms, is like breathing air after a brush with drowning.

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Darn clock. Playing tireless and tuneless beats on my varying emotions. Three weeks, yes. But its been one week since I heard from him. Heard being the operative word here. It was uncharacteristic, even for him. I was beginning to wonder if I had been replaced. Was the Mrs. reinstated in the private quarters? I laugh out loud. Political jargon, now? Reinstated, my heinie. Ok, I admit, she’s a looker, smoldering at times. Struts with such indignant confidence. After all, why shouldn’t she? The wife of a Politician draws glares from their Constituents. Quite simply put, she is a beneficial prop. Mrs. What’s-her-face, also known as Mrs. Croatia DuJour, is by all means, lackluster. 
You may think I’m saying this because I’m itching the green eyed monster. But the proof is in his eyes. Those piercing, brown peepers that twinkle when he grins. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. His stare devoid of emotion. Unimpressed by her Stepford Wife persona. Mrs. What’s-her- face was for the grand standing, ongoing, political circus.
I turn away from the clock, concluding I had two options. Laze around this immaculate, well decorated, picket fenced prison, he has so generously paid for, or, ring him. So he can inform me that he’s swamped at the office. His numbers are soaring, the polls are great. He’ll swing by as soon as time permits. Those words. As true and relatable as it will sound, still so not what I want to hear.
Decision made. I flop onto fluffed up pillows, reach for my phone and scroll through until my fingers land on his digits. I stretch my legs out and admire well manicured toes, contrasting against a deep, rich, black sofa. I smile. Black is such an inconvenient color. The evidence of a satisfying tryst, so plainly on display.
I pause and close my eyes, for just a minute. Four nights ago came vividly to mind. I purse my lips as I replay empty conversations but meaningful embraces. Cornily smiling, with eyes still tightly shut, my free hand dances along my bare stomach, tangoing its way into loose ringlets. Twirling strands around my forefinger. Inching ever so slowly, easing my way through black, manicured lawn. I reach my top and senses its urgency. Begging to be caressed. I feel the pulsation. My eyes flutter open. I need to make my call. No more ifs, buts or maybes. 

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