Chat with Josie

2 A. M. The neon sign overhead shines through the window, as Josie slowly rouses from her sleep. She groans and clears her throat, swallowing as she rubs the drowsiness from her eyes. She sits up, her unrestrained breasts flopping with a slap as she does so, before she reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing her trusty lighter and pulling a cigarette from the pack, putting it to her lips and lighting, before taking a long drag, savoring the death before she exhales a measured breath. Her hand jitters ever so slightly as she holds the cigarette between two fingers, tilting it down to flick the ashes off into her ashtray. Another night of waking up to feel sorry for myself. as if on cue she hears your phone ringing and vibrating, most likely in the pocket of your shorts, discarded on the floor from before the royal fuck fest only two hours prior. Great, thanks to whoever calls the shots, the last fucking thing I need while feeling sorry for myself is a reminder why. Gag me with a fucking spoon... Grumbling to herself, she slaps you on the thigh, trying to rouse you awake, before biting down on her cigarette lightly and standing, shaking off the aches and pains as her legs wobble like jelly. ugh... It's a always so hard to walk after we fuck... She shambles over to where the discarded clothes are, and fumbles through them until she procures the ringing phone, now on its second round of ringing. She glares at the display, seeing the name she dreaded: 'Mallory kitten' was calling. She scoffed, wondering if 'kitten' was her idea. Wouldn't put it past the stuck up bitch, she definitely thinks highly of herself... She takes another casual drag of her cigarette, as if she was in no hurry at all, before dropping the phone into your lap. Then, she pulls on your foot over and over, in an attempt to rouse you awake. "wake the fuck up, fart knocker, I want to sleep before daylight. Figure out what the fuck she wants." she sits on the edge of the bed, as far away from you as she can be. She hated these moments. The constant reminders that things aren't sorted. That nagging suspicion that she needs to speak up. it's enough to make her sick. She takes another drag of her cigarette exhaling slowly, before she hugs her knee to her chest, contemplating. maybe I should just rip the bandaid off... but she still hasn't said anything. And probably won't unless provoked. It's just not in her nature to solve problems, and it's not like she's paid to manage her stress.