The Posy Diaries

Kennedy Morrison is an unapologetic 20-something year old in the throes of recovering from a recent breakup from Blake Henley. Blake lives thousands of miles away from her. Kennedy has chronic depression and anxiety and Blake has ADHD and depression. They're both chronically sad and lonely. Can Kennedy stop her consumption by her own worst enemy: herself? Is her relationship with Blake salvageable?


Author's note

WARNING: This story contains strong language, graphic imagery, explicit sexual content, and possible drug use. Please read at your own discretion. You must be 18 years old or older to read this.

2. II.


I wrote down a list of symptoms and side-effects from Vyvanse to show to you once you woke up. Your dog stuck his ass in my face and, with his little pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, him panting erratically, pawed his way up my chest. He crawled up with his tiny body and wagged his squirrel tail back and forth in some hypnotic rhythmic fashion. He was all at once naive and stupidly lovable because he couldn't differentiate between an intruder or a friend. You'd told me that you'd tried yanking on his leash to deter him from jauntily walking up to anyone, gaily, during his walks, but it was only to your chagrin that he'd sniff at everyone's shoe...sneaker, sandal, steel-toed boot or converse.

“'Morning to you too, bud,” I said and I gave your dog three solid pats on his head. The papillon tilted his head to the side cutely, questioning me, and if he could, he would wonder aloud about what the heck I was doing awkwardly patting his head.

I read over the symptoms and side effects. You squirmed and shifted under the blankets beside me. I thought about you mounting me from behind until I recalled that you weren't fond of sex in that position. You thought that it was uncomfortable and weird. “It makes my hips hurt”, you whined. “Why do all of you girls like being screwed from behind so much anyway?” You asked, slightly irritated. You didn't understand the appeal for women, you moaned warily.

I insisted that you try it so you would shut up for the next ten minutes. You muttered about us being vertically challenged and I snorted, not in derision, but in actual slight mirth. We really were quite short, at my being 5'2” and you being 5'6”. Barely. You were barely 5'6”. Still, I'd slept with a guy shorter than you who had a grand old time slamming into me from behind. It was wonderful. It was the hardest and one of the most intense orgasms I'd ever experienced out of my five partners. I wasn't about to tell you that though, however, I sadly doubted you would bat an eyelash at the mention of another man.

“I wish you would just have sex with me,” I muttered to the ceiling and then glanced at the clock. It was 8:10 am on a beautiful and bright Saturday morning. I didn’t think you’d heard me. I’d just assumed you were still dead-ass asleep. Surprisingly, you turned to me, and as if you were psychic, proceeded to turn me over to face your sliding-door closet. Wordlessly you palmed my wetness, gently first, then roughly and with an insistence, pulling my heather gray boy-shorts to the side. You plunged a finger inside, knuckle-deep, and I could feel you smirk smugly behind me.

Oh, screw YOU, dude.

You buried your face in the crook of my neck, sleepily mumbled, “'morning,” and peppered kisses along the swan-like length.

“Morning to you too, Blake,” I replied breathlessly and closed my eyes, shuddering against the impending barrage of physical bliss. My brain turned into a foggy mist and nothingness. Fireworks erupted behind my eyelids and went off. The synapses in my brain fired wildly. And then suddenly everything went stark white and I could only register the feeling your broad fingers, the warmth of your slightly callused palm, and the roughness of your stubble scratching the side of my neck.

I grabbed a pillow, moaned and screamed with everything that I had as you slid into me and proceeded to screw every word out of my mouth.





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