One of the assistants to gallery’s chief curator led me into the reproduction studio and told me to wait; told me that my appointment, Dr Margot Canty, Chief Curator, would be along shortly, and that I could sit, or not, as I wished. She was gone.
The upper reaches of the studio were full of unlit gantries that reached yet higher into an inverted ocean of shadow. Around the walls stood various lighting apparatus, flashes and fill lamps, and all kinds of mechanical creatures limp-limbed, clinical and dead. Some ancient works of art, allegoricals or others featuring Christ suspended in awkward poses, leaned on dollies waiting to either come or go. These were small, cataracted by age, other-worldly.
I did not notice the makers of these artworks because another, by now, demanded all my attention, an unframed spot-lit canvas maybe eighteen feet long, and six or seven high — an explosion of red on Red on RED — Haemsturm, 1958, by Lee Krasner Pollock.
Knocked back onto my heels by the ker-POW, I was then drawn forward, hypnotically, as though conveyed on one of those weird tippy-toe trances where all the senses are suspended. Except the Soul of course, which goes bananas. Man what a painting. And there I was, six feet, four feet, two feet and closing until all of me, and all of my Being and Cosmic Experience as One, were engulfed into that big, red, beautiful fog.
Well, some old crap like that.
As it happened, on my way down to the basement studios, I had discovered a red marker pen abandoned on the floor of the elevator. I had picked it up, slipped it into my breast pocket. I don’t normally carry marker pens, nor wear blouses with pockets, so this was pre-ordained. There I was, humbly insignificant before, and captive to, this giant of a Lee Krasner Pollock wunderkunst, and before I knew it, Red had called to Red. The Red Force of Haemsturm compelled my left hand to remove the lid of the Red Marker Pen, and the same Red Force caused my right hand to pull forward with the pen outstretched. I drew three red dots in the lower right-hand corner, just below the signature.
This is true. I am a vandal. Never leave me alone with a masterpiece.
Let me ask you, how many days in a life are there when you are blessed with even one ker-POW? This day I got two, the second coming when Margot walked in. There she was, five-foot nothing of the sexiest, most gloriously sloping-breasted, sandal-footed vision I had ever laid eyes on. Ker-POW. I needed to kiss her. How’s that. This was before I was anyone’s Ex; long before I was delivering and receiving remotely orchestrated orgasms as a so-called Lesbian Email Slut. In walked Margot, all Vanilla-and-Coal, and ker-POW — I needed to kiss her and hold her and wrap my tits around her face. In that one single moment it was all I could think about.
The kissing and tit-wrapping would come much, much later though.
I will tell you this, and tell no one else because it is not my usual habit. After my business visit with Margot— about which I cannot recall a damn thing — I went straight to the bathroom in the basement studios there, and masturbated. I remember three things about that:
1) I stepped out of the bathroom feeling completely unrefreshed. 2) The fantasy I had formulated was very intense. And, 3) I was quite disturbed by my reaction to Margot, which at the time was not unlike my own personal Haemsturm going on down there between the legs.
Fate intervened, as it often does, and in this case in a good way. It happened that I wouldn’t find myself drunk and kissing Margot and going down on her until nearly two years after this first meeting, not until after I had already fumbled my way through two preciously discomfiting same-sex encounters, and not until after a good deal of outrageously absurd on-line sex with a cunt-obsessed, nymphomaniac German called Karin.
It was for a rare thing that Fate allowed me these preparations.
Oh yeah, I should mention that I suffered no illusions about Margot the day I met her. She gave no sign that she could be gay. I did not believe she would have found in me anything but an agreeable and professional acquaintance. And nor did I consider seriously, except in fantasies, that there was even the remotest possibility of my having any kind of intimate contact with her. I am a realist above all else. These things, in general life, just don’t happen. It’s that simple.
So I guess I was wrong there.
The first time she invited me out to a girl’s lunch, I got the idea she was showing me off, which I thought odd because at best, and especially compared to that hip gallery crowd, I am drab. My wardrobe is Nouveau Inept. Edith Bland by name, and so Bland by nature. But I do my best, honestly.
She invited me to cocktails and canapes at various catalogue launches. Same again, I believed I was paraded. She displayed toward me a proprietorship before her friends and enemies which I found quite puzzling. I enjoyed it all the same. Done with her obligations of an evening, she would stroll me through the galleries, an arm hooked through mine, and explain the various significances of the catalogue list. I enjoyed that too. I will admit I was often aware of the warmth of her breast pressed against my elbow. That was sexy. We became friends. But it wasn’t until after many half-inebriated catalogue launches, and a long while later — almost two years later in fact — that she invited me to the forest hideaway she kept with her new husband, Ivan, the guy who as an up-coming spouse she had never mentioned. I wasn’t either invited to the wedding which I didn’t know anything about until it was all well and truly past tense.
Huh.
Now, I didn’t see the forest ‘hut’ (as Margot called it) in daylight until the Saturday morning. I arrived in the darkness of Friday evening. The high, unshaded windows at the top of the external staircase made welcoming squares of yellow light. There was music. Ivan’s black whatever (I don’t notice brands) was parked beneath a skillion. I parked my bomb next to it. There was laughter, Margot’s cry that builds and threatens faintly to climax. I remembered how that laugh had thrilled me. It was a promise: I can bring you Heaven. It was a dagger through the heart.
Five-foot nothing of vanilla and coal. Skin creamy like vanilla. Hair blacker than jet. Eyes bright and huge with the luminous depths of organic coal. Margot’s lips, pale crimson, provided the only contrast of colour and begged not just for a kiss but to be chewed and pulled and sucked and licked and bitten. I would forgive any man for wanting to push his cock between those lips.
Do you know, I had imagined kissing her between her legs on the first day we met. Do you know, I had imagined lifting her breasts out from her bra and pulling on the nipples while I licked her. In all my fantasies, I pull her nipples and she falls on me in a submission to that pleasure. True. And in all my fantasies, I am her first lady lover.
By the Saturday morning, as it happened, I was just about ready to rip Ivan’s face off… for being so perfect in every realm and sphere of domestic endeavor. He chooses the perfect wine for dinner. Makes the perfect pasta and tomato-and-eggplant sauce. For crying out loud, he makes Origami storks out of napkins. Decked out in an embroidered Slovenian peasant’s apron (with matching embroidered oven mitts), he looks so utterly homespun and cosy that I feel inclined to go right over there to the kitchen and give him a good hard slap, just because. And then, for a nightcap, he makes us ‘ladies’ steaming hot cocoa. Mine gets two marshmallows (one white, one pink) bobbing away on top and Ivan reckons they’ll make me sleep and I’m thinking, Not until I fucking puke, pal.
Jealous? Moi?
Some relief came with the breakthrough of the Saturday’s afternoon sun. The moment Ivan and Margot headed off into town in Ivan’s sleek, black whatever, back at the ranch, having just waved them out of sight, (no thank-you. I’ll remain here and read, maybe take a nap…) it was off with the jeans and undies and straight into an entree orgasm generated cunt-forward using the knobs on kitchen cabinets for chilly friction, watching the breeze sway the tops of the valley pines.
Trees swayed. Earth moved. How divine.
I had considered the possibility that they’d invited me down to seduce me into a threesome. This idea had entertained me for a while throughout the drive up to the ‘shack’ (as I called it,) exploring the various outcomes, most of them ending up with me on top of Margot.
One look at Ivan and that sexy little balloon went ker-flop. I could not imagine that he’d had an original dirty thought in his entire life. He wore self-iron check shirts. He treated me with respect and dignity. What a nice guy. I’m almost sorry that during the night in the bathroom adjoining their bedroom, I had put my ear on the wall to hear whether or not they were fucking, which they weren’t. The ‘hut’ (as Margot called it) was so quiet out there in the sticks, you could have heard a pin drop fifteen miles away. Back in bed I had switched on my vibe then snapped it off again. Fuck. Even on Lo, in all that quiet it roared like a clapped-out washing machine. As a second best, I slipped over onto my front for a little humping and what have you, but as I’d barely gained a rhythm the antique iron-framed bed went off squawking like the Sin Alarm at a Nunfest. So I embraced Sweet Chastity, if only for a night…
Now, while we’re being intimate, let me tell you this. I am a snoop, and so you must never leave me alone in your house. Got that?
With Margot and Ivan safely out of the way, I went upstairs to their bedroom. Of course at this stage in our affairs I still believed that the chances of me and Margot ever getting it off together, anywhere anytime, were about zero. I did not know (how could I?) that we were just hours away from cocktail nakedness, kissing, tit-wrapping and all that.
You will hear about the ‘and all that’ very shortly. Get the tissues handy.
The bed table on Margot’s side was covered with piles of gallery catalogues and art books and novels. Some of the catalogue numbers I recall hugging to my chest to hide the excitement in my nipples while secretly lusting beside Margot.
Over their bed hung a framed reduction print of Haemsturm. No ker-POW. This effect has a lot to do with size. Mind you, I did get a mild ker-POW when I opened Margot’s dresser and found some interesting stuff inside. Right at the back of the top drawer I discovered a slender green vibrator (batteries flat), the kind of vibrator a woman timidly buys in the presence of her husband/partner (well, OK Honey, if you think so…) to disguise the fact that back at home she’s got hidden away somewhere a Slutbuster that can knock down walls.
What else… a black ball mask with lace edging and sequined whiskers. Hm, ok. Several crotchless panties. Getting warm. A black faux-leather platform bra and matching suspenders and stockings. Very good. And what’s this? A cheap plastic riding crop. Excellent. I wondered who got smacked. Maybe I needed to give Ivan a rethink.
And under the buff wallpaper off-cut used as a drawer liner, I found a single sheet of writing paper, folded in quarters. I peeked inside, naturally. The paper was Pearl Continental – Karachi and the page was from somewhere within the middle of a multi-page letter. She had chosen to keepsake a sheet that began, in hand-written scrawl, ‘…deep in your hole and pound you.’
Well, no ker-POW, but a definite re-awakening down that-a-way.
I took the letter downstairs to the sofa in front of the tall windows that outlooked toward the valley, but more importantly overlooking the driveway approach. I spread the letter out on an ottoman between my legs, roughed up my nipples.
The writer continued, ‘Watch me, Plaything. Have you seen my cock this hard before? Here, put your fingers around it. Go on. Do as you are told. See how hard it is?’
I could see it. I really could. Clit time.
‘This is how you get me, Plaything, when you tell me those stories about your big fat dildo and all those pussies you eat. This feels better though, doesn’t it? Much better than that dildo of yours. You never know what will happen next with a real cock. You’ll never know till it…’
Well, I never found out.
By now I was imagining Margot nude, on her knees, a huge, disembodied penis giving it to her from behind. I was up there in front of course — on my back — getting Margot’s orgasmic passion translated into a whole lot of licking, just for me. I was beginning to understand what my intuition had ker-POWed at me that wonderful day almost two years ago when she walked into the gallery studios for our appointment: She likes good, dirty, hardcore sex.
My heartbeat now rose in synchrony to an invisible countdown. I fanned myself.
Margot arrived home with the car, late afternoon, Ivanless. She changed into a toga and slippers, and coming back downstairs she said, ‘Let’s have a little something.’
This ‘little something’ was a monstrously large Martini complete with olive, dagger through its heart, sloshing around mortified on all that alcoholic sea. The first went straight to my head. The second went straight to my cunt, along with the realisation that I had never before now been this kind of alone with Margot.
She said, ‘Let’s have a nap. Then we can eat.’
We curled up on the sofa, me behind Margot, and as the last of the day’s sun came around, it made sparkling diamonds out of the highlights in her coal-black hair. She fell asleep, breathing slow and heavy, and fumed intimately of lavender soap and Vermouth. As she slept she dreamed, and as she dreamed her black-lashed eyelids fretted. My arm was slung over her hip, nose buried into nape and hair. Oh my. I pressed my pussy forward against her bottom. She moved in her sleep. One breast, loose within its towelling sack, spilled across my wrist.
Lit by a square of brilliant red-gold light, Margot slumbered over into my arms. I kissed her. Her eyes drifted open and she made a noise neither fright nor delight. Just a noise. It vibrated our lips. Her black-as-coal eyes were wide open then, staring into mine. Blinking rapidly. They fell closed as her tongue pushed through into my mouth.
I broke the kiss, and, kneeling on the rug, pulled her forward to the edge of the sofa and opened the toga and kissed her breasts. Lower, her belly button. Lower, I kissed the black bristle she wore at the top of her lip-budding slit. It prickled. I remember that. With hands in the shape of prayer I pressed them forward between her knees and spread. She opened her pussy by the lips and I gathered her wet on my fingers and put it on my tongue. Margot drew me up, took some of my own wetness and put it onto her own tongue. We kissed, and thus with the ritual exchange of flavors, we became lovers as though there had never been any doubt we should.
At around eight-thirty PM I drifted downstairs from a post-coital shower, towelling the damp out of my hair. You know how it goes, your tongue aches and your pussy is all tingly-numb inside and out, and you’ve half-sobered up and you’ve had enough time to clear your head and reconsider in a calmer light all the horribly embarrassing things you’ve just been doing to each other in near-epileptic bouts of sexual frenzy.
I wondered how Margot felt about all that stuff, all the licking and moaning and biting and nipple twisting and hair pulling, and all the fingers-in-holes and the Oh-My-Fucking-Godding and so on. She was barefoot, wrapped in a loose robe at the kitchen counter doing something with a fry pan. She said, ‘Ivan called. He’s still out getting drunk. One of his mates’ll drive him home later.’ She came to me and took my two hands and pushed them inside the shower-humid robe. Back onto her body. Up under her tits.
So, that’s how she felt about that stuff. More.
There we were at eight-thirty, granted a reprieve, kind of wondering what to do next with our new freedom.
I shut the raw cotton Roman blinds, letting them down one by one, in no hurry building for us a warm nest of scent and fire and lamplight. Margot put aside the fry pan. She would use it later, put a condom on the handle and fuck me with it. How did she know I adored having sex with ordinary household items? As I lowered the last of the blinds, she carried a pitcher of icy Martini and two long-stemmed glasses over to the table near the sofa and fire. We got naked.
To say we did nothing for the next two hours except screw would be a lie. But not much of a lie. Somewhere there, Margot made a fresh pitcher of Martini. I went upstairs for a clean up. Arriving back, Margot pressed me with yet another over-flowing glass, sans olive this time because we’d run out. I refused. She refused my refusal and said something along the lines, ‘There’s a lot more of you in there I don’t think I’ve been shown yet. Drink up.’ Which I did.
Seduced by this atmosphere of easy intimacy, I confessed to her about Haemsturm and my contribution to its providence. Margot thought about this. She said, ‘Now I know why I liked you so much.’
We were scissored, laid back on opposing sofa pillows, sipping our drinks and puffing on some fat smelly cigars which Margot had produced from under a cushion. She could blow smoke rings. I tried but got only one to come out in anything like a donut, more a wobbly mess that drifted up into the loft spaces like the spectre of an Edvard Munch on a bad day. Besides, I was having trouble concentrating right then, what with Margot’s pussy rubbing all over mine like that. Nice tickly things were happening down there.
She added about Haemsturm, ‘That painting is crap. It’s $20 of paint on $20 of canvas, and it just sold for eleven million. Think how many vibrators that kind of money could buy for the women of the developing world.’
At least, I think that’s what she said. I was having an involuntary orgasm. By that I mean, all I did was look down at our pussies jerking up and down and Margot sucking on the cigar, and Whoosh, off it went all on its own. Then Margot had one. Then I had one. Then Margot had another one.
‘Is that the only reason you liked me? Because I’m capable of the Haemsturm thing?’
The wet stub of the cigar, abandoned by orgasm and rescued off the rug before it burned a hole, played between her lips. I thought that was sexy, the way her lips creased into a natural pucker, the way her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, the way her eyelids drooped low with exquisite insouciance. Tendrils of liquid-white smoke escaped her tongue and crossed her crimson lips, tumbled down her chin and neck and pooled into mist between her breasts.
She came to a conclusion. ‘Yes and no. But more yes.’
Before I could prompt, she continued, ‘You see, Edith, you are a very devious person. You have the face of an angel, and the sparkling intelligence and sweet good looks that could get you into anyone’s underpants, or even bank accounts if you chose to go that way. But, really, you are devious. And this makes you fun, but at the same time very dangerous. I think I’m in love with the dangerous part. I know because you are capable of great deception, and that because you never really love anyone except in an imitation of love to deceive them, and maybe even yourself, that you are capable of inflicting great hurt on those around you whether you mean to or not. You probably call it ‘independence.’ But yes, despite this, I’m prepared to take a risk and be with you and say it’s the dangerous part I’m in love with. But that’s also why I can fuck you, then go sleep with my husband and not ruffle too many of my own otherwise delicate moral feathers.’
Somewhere along the line there I made a mental note to be offended as soon I sobered up.
I had some other confessions to make which despite the alcohol never found voice. Upstairs earlier, I had tried on a couple of her bras. One in particular I found very interesting. It was black with a black satin daisy between the cups, sheer and underwired, and of course my little puppies went exactly nowhere toward to filling up all that gorgeous, expensive fabric. On the other hand, I am taller, and broader across the shoulders, so the straps were a bit tight, which also gave me delicious throbbings in the breasts. I have very sensitive nipples. I stroked them through the fabric and I just knew, then and there, that I had to have this bra to play with at another time. So I stole the whole ensemble and hid it at the bottom of my overnight bag.
Never leave me alone with your underwear.
‘Is that all, while you’ve got me on the coroner’s slab?’
‘How about this. If you were a man, you’d be happily married, but with, say, a porno vault the size of a small mountain. And possibly you’d keep a black book. But only a very small black book. Basically, not very interesting.’
‘And? As a woman?’
‘Well. As a woman, you are what you are.’
‘Which is…?’
‘I’d say an emotional vagabond.’
The only comeback I could think of right then was, ‘Well, anyway I read lot of porn…’
By now we were on the rug directly in front of the burned down fire which was glowing placidly on the grate. Margot plucked the little hairs from around my nipples while I ate her. We were in no particular rush. Remembering the line I read in the letter about ‘all those pussies you eat,’ a recollection prompted by the fact that right then I was doing that same thing, I had some questions, like, ‘Ever done this before?’
Margot lit a second cigar from the stub of the first and opened her legs a lot wider and stretched her arms high toward the panelled ceiling. This made her gorgeous breasts stand up. I moved around onto my elbows between Margot’s thighs and she said, ‘Do you know a Hilda Hope? Heard of her?’
No, I hadn’t. Apparently she was a sensation a while back for her gauche-and-ink post-modern abstract impressions of vulvas. (Tell me, in all honesty, who but an artist would think to intellectualize a cunt?)
Margot met Hilda when she held a retrospective of Hilda’s work at the Impromptu room of the gallery, and for a short time became Hilda’s lover. Back at Hilda’s studio, Dr. Margot Canty contributed to some of Hilda’s newer stuff by spreading paint all over between her legs and sitting astride art boards bent like saddles, making foundation prints of ass and pussy. She said with a sigh, ‘I fell in love with her.’ Margot held up a thumb and finger and made a gap of about an inch and told me that Hilda’s clitoris was around so big. ‘She looked so broken. And sad. I fell in love with all that sadness. Know what I mean?’
I really did.
I licked all over Margot’s pussy while she told me more about how she made love to Hilda, in particular how she had given Hilda head. I was delivered a vignette of a naked vanilla-and-coal, five-foot nothing Margot, hands clasped behind her back in symbolic submission, kneeling in front of Hilda offering her pursed lips as a kind of proxy cunt, one that could be fucked with a penis/clitoris an inch long. Hilda, incidentally, was a frail woman, pale skinned, anaemic, flat-chested and by all accounts very shy.
Two things above all else, Margot told me in strictest confidence, drove Hilda’s sexuality. Her nipples, which were darkly pigmented and long and highly sensitive when erect, and her clitoris likewise. And I was thinking, sounds like me really. Except for the size thing. Margot also said that Hilda could never be monogamous because of her need for sex, her need for orgasms to the extent of sex or masturbation upwards of eight or ten times a day. Me again. I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story because Margot was getting off on the oral tricks I was giving her, which I’d read about on a website. Or was she avoiding the issue? I sensed pain, and I sensed too the possibility that she released this pain into the outpouring of orgasm, which also involved a heck of a lot of wrenching on my hair.
Then again, who knows. I’m a bra thief, not a fucking analyst.
All I know is that I got a very wet face and needed to go upstairs for another clean up. Standing at the bathroom mirror I pulled faces and wiggled my tongue and grinned like an over-stimulated idiot because Yes! after all this time I was beyond just dreaming about it and actually getting it off with my darling sexy sloping-breasted Margot. The world was all roses. Holding up my breasts, squeezing hard, I had the incongruous simultaneous desires to eat Margot some more (because I could), and to feel some hot fresh-from-the-cock sperm landing on the shelf of my tits. I don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Then I remembered Margot downstairs, waiting for me. Ad Astra.
She said, ‘You’re holding back.’
This was just before she screwed me with the fry pan handle. I told her I wasn’t holding anything back. She could have all of me, I said, every single damn thing I had to give, whether it be by way of romance or sex or companionship or whatever, even things I’d never thought of — just let me know. (Well, I stayed clear of ‘love’ by the way.) And this time I wasn’t being devious. (I had just remembered to be slightly wounded.) I’m not sure if it all came out exactly like that, thanks to the Martinis. She said, ‘Still. I feel like I don’t really know you yet.’
Well in that case Margot, that makes two.
If this was just an excuse to get a bit interesting, then that was quite all right with me. My fingertips tingled. What exactly was coming next? …another part of me not wanting to know.
I sat quietly and watched while, like the fastidious executioner fashioning her noose (at least I would die aesthetically), she rolled the condoms (two) down over the black plastic fry pan handle. She stroked up and down the shaft and I got more butterflies, this time way up in the pussy. I could have told her that plenty of times before now I’d gone to bed with a saucepan or two, and variations that took my fancy. Oh how I love those basic handle shapes, designed for finger grips and innocent tasks, giving lots of nice bumpy feelings going in and out, only then, with the glint of a fresh wash and polish, to hang so innocently back in my kitchen. ‘More soup Vicar?’
It was my idea to bend over the ottoman. I peered back at Margot. She whispered to herself, mostly things unheard that went on under her breath as she fulfilled some kind of personal fantasy, meanwhile concentrating on giving me a good fuck. My nipples popped like firecrackers. I rubbed them, and mashed my breasts on the studded leather of the ottoman and pushed back and wiggled my ass to let her know she was being way too gentle back there. But then something else called.
‘Here. Put that away…’
With a foreboding that our time was running out, I took the fry pan and put it aside. I stood. Margot, comprehending the gesture, came to me on her knees with hands clasped behind over her bottom, and I opened my thighs and brought her head under. In lovemaking, if we’re honest, we all seek a return to something.
I stroked and raked her hair, allowing its silkiness to run through my fingers. It fascinated me like a pure black evil, something else that should not be known. I discovered and probed the strong muscularity of her shoulders. I caressed the broad vanilla of her back. There were little black moles and freckles here and there.
Clasping her head firmly, I pulled her mouth tighter up under my pussy. Margot’s chin worked hard between my thighs, her tongue struggling to go deep where the flutter of its tip delighted me in astonishingly beautiful ways. Margot moaned into my cunt. She was coming. I watched her. I clutched her head and pressed her breasts between my knees. The intensity of her cries told me that this was just right.
A few moments earlier, it was in this exact position, Margot as yet unsatisfied, that the real world returned with a headlamp’s sweep across the outside of the Roman blinds. I let Margot finish then cupped her chin and led her away. I kissed the top of her head. ‘We have company…’
By the time we heard Ivan stomping up the outside steps, we were robed and composed. No problems there. I remembered at the last moment to kick the fry pan under the sofa and toss the condoms and packets onto the fire. Margot thought this hilarious and so as Ivan made a buffoon’s entrance at the front door he found us both laughing, which I think he assumed was directed at him. He eyed off the stairs and made a beeline for them. There he paused, gripped the newel post, and informed us with pompous gravity, ‘G’d evening ladies. I seem to be a little the worse for wear.’ Then out of sight upstairs a door banged. I didn’t see him again till Sunday, midday.
Margot threw herself across me, gave me hard, closed-mouth kiss. She said, ‘I’d better go make sure he’s all right. Do you mind?’
I said, ‘Hey. Go give him a blow job.’
‘Do you think?’
‘No.’
‘I think I will’
‘You should. Can I watch?’
‘No. He’s mine.’
At the top of the stairs she turned and flashed me her pussy. I’d like to believe she allowed me this tiny opportunity to call her back. Which I didn’t. It was Margot who broke away. With a blown kiss she vanished.
Sure, I’m reporting here all the big deals of our sex this Saturday evening at Margot’s hut in order to qualify this story as erotic, but let me tell you the first thing I disclosed to my journal when I got back home on the Sunday evening, and whilst, by the way, wearing the stolen bra and panties. This was simply: ‘Re. M. We kissed.’
And as you know, this is quite true. And a lot more. So never leave me alone with your wife.
© 2006 Cherry Black. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.