Feeling The Draft
Aug 12, 2026 · 35 min · 11 segments
Welcome to Smut Loving Canadian💋, where the internet’s steamiest stories come to life through voice and atmosphere. Sit back, relax, and escape into a world of bold fantasies and immersive…
Aug 12, 2026 · 35 min · 11 segments
Welcome to Smut Loving Canadian💋, where the internet’s steamiest stories come to life through voice and atmosphere. Sit back, relax, and escape into a world of bold fantasies and immersive…
Ah, fuck.
Where is he? It's already 8 p.m.
She's aggravated.
She knows she has no right to be, but God, she can't stop thinking about him.
And where is he? He's usually home by now.
She checks the hour again and sighs.
He doesn't owe her anything.
In fact, she's certain if they bumped into one another tomorrow morning right outside their apartment complex, he wouldn't even recognize her.
Or maybe a short flicker of recognition would pass in his eyes before he placed her face as the woman from across the street.
He'd probably be very polite and kind as he usually is.
You know, making sure she's not hurt anywhere, that he didn't accidentally hit her anywhere as he walked right into her.
Just being mindful.
Hmm, that could be a such meat-cute trope.
She sings songs to no one.
She keeps stealing glances towards his window, letting her mind drift off to probable, but impossible scenarios.
They could meet at the grocery store at the corner of the street right as she'd reach for that perfectly red apple Her fingertips would touch his as he'd be reaching for the same apple from the other side of the aisle or they could sit on the same line of seats in the tube and They'd have to eventually acknowledge each other maybe start a pointless discussion about something or they could meet at the laundromat.
Yes, Cat, very romantic and out of the box thinking right there.
She rolls her eyes at herself and lets her forehead tap once against the cool surface of the window.
She lets out a sigh and turns around, walking away from any kind of temptation that her overlooking window has become as of late.
Where, as of late, stands for the last three months.
Or more specifically, and only if she wants to be absolutely, abundantly, excruciatingly honest with herself, for the last year and four months.
She falls on the sofa, splaying her body on the cool pillows, letting her head rest against the armrest, and brings her arm over her eyes, blocking out any light, trying to calm down her nerves.
The cool fabric against her skin feels nice.
It hasn't been too long since she's been afraid to be seen naked as the day she was born.
But then, he happened.
Ah, fuck.
Where is he? It's already 8 p.m.
She's aggravated.
She knows she has no right to be, but God, she can't stop thinking about him.
And where is he? He's usually home by now.
She checks the hour again and sighs.
He doesn't owe her anything.
In fact, she's certain if they bumped into one another tomorrow morning right outside their apartment complex, he wouldn't even recognize her.
Or maybe a short flicker of recognition would pass in his eyes before he placed her face as the woman from across the street.
He'd probably be very polite and kind as he usually is.
You know, making sure she's not hurt anywhere, that he didn't accidentally hit her anywhere as he walked right into her.
Just being mindful.
Hmm, that could be a such meat-cute trope.
She sings songs to no one.
She keeps stealing glances towards his window, letting her mind drift off to probable, but impossible scenarios.
They could meet at the grocery store at the corner of the street right as she'd reach for that perfectly red apple Her fingertips would touch his as he'd be reaching for the same apple from the other side of the aisle or they could sit on the same line of seats in the tube and They'd have to eventually acknowledge each other maybe start a pointless discussion about something or they could meet at the laundromat.
Yes, Cat, very romantic and out of the box thinking right there.
She rolls her eyes at herself and lets her forehead tap once against the cool surface of the window.
She lets out a sigh and turns around, walking away from any kind of temptation that her overlooking window has become as of late.
Where, as of late, stands for the last three months.
Or more specifically, and only if she wants to be absolutely, abundantly, excruciatingly honest with herself, for the last year and four months.
She falls on the sofa, splaying her body on the cool pillows, letting her head rest against the armrest, and brings her arm over her eyes, blocking out any light, trying to calm down her nerves.
The cool fabric against her skin feels nice.
It hasn't been too long since she's been afraid to be seen naked as the day she was born.
But then, he happened.
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