Ah, Zee Lamour! Ah, Zee Toujours! Ah, Zee Scrubbing Bubbles!!!

I'm innocent.
Really.

In front of me are spreadsheets, work notes, a bottle of water, my pc, and a grocery list. I have nothing but good, clean, work thoughts and intentions.

And yet my snoopy is still throbbing.

Why? I don't know!!!!

Some errant thought must have squeezed its way into my brain via a repressed memory of a shower fantasy and twanged on the trigger that controls vulvar function. And I'm REALLY trying to get some work done...but, alas, all I can concentrate on is the pulsing, and the image in my head of someone's face buried deep "down there", all distracting and yummy.

Not that I'm complaining too loudly. But I have to watch my breathing, 'cause one of my cubemates is bound to yell over, 'Are you okay? You sound like you're hyperventilating.' I tried crossing my legs as a sort of breakwater, and that only made it worse, the whole flesh-to-flesh thing. Gahhhhh!!!!

I read this morning that men spouses who help with the housework get more sex, and better sex. I do know it turns ME on. There's something about seeing my Big Fine Daddy with a roll of paper towels and a squirt bottle of disinfectant cleaner that makes my nips hard like frozen peas. When he breaks out the vacuum, my nether regions get all tingly, and if I see him in the bathroom scrubbing on the shower tiles, I find the nearest pillow-type object to moan into. Still not sure why. Maybe it's because I'm not the cleanest of cleaners, and someone assisting with the odious tasks leaves me more time for self-stimulation, which I, of course, enjoy. Or maybe it's just the idea of showering without mold growing between my toes.

Yep, still all throbby. Sheesh. This is going to be a loooooong afternoon.