He Removes His Clothes
He Will Climb Naked
Wedging Himself Between
He Inches His Way To
The Dizzying Smell Of
The Climb Is Difficult
At Last He Emerges On
Oh He Loves Her To
But It Is To The South
The View Is Spectacu
They Are The Breasts
They Are Glorious
He Sits Cross Legged
Between The Twin Peaks
Soon He Will Enter That
The Going Is Easy At
He Is Barefoot Of Course
He Mounts The Springy
The Smooth Surface Offers
He Is Sliding
He Lies Down Upon The
How Can This Be Done
How Can He Reach The
Returning The Way He
He Crouches And Dashes
As His Momentum Is Exhausted
He Has His Purchase
| I then felt what I'd come upstairs for rolling shards of an impending orgasm and stuck two fingers inside myself, rubbing my clit with the soft inner knuckle of one. Through my squinting eyes I saw Billy walk toward the lemon tree at the rear of the property. Looking around to see if anyone was watching the workers were all out front he moved around it and unbuttoned his shorts to pee.
Frustrated, I began flicking my clit hard, then pulled out the brush so that it clattered to the tile floor. I stood up, facing the window that looked down into the backyard, and grasped the towel rack for support as I stroked myself. If the drug were making me horny, it was also desensitizing me. Usually very quick to cum...at least with Jack...I merely felt dull throbs that didn't promise anything close to what I'd recently come to know as an orgasm. I daydreamed...Jack, Jack, Jack...as I slowly cycled the handle deeply in and out of my vagina. After a while I left it inside while I strummed my clit, which proved stimulating yet unsatisfying. "And, stop calling me Deirdre! My friends call me Dee!" I said, calming a wicked impulse that had suddenly streaked through me. "Okay, Dee," he said, still embarrassed. "Uhh, this afternoon..." I asked, feeling a telltale, trembling feeling in my tummy, as I resumed making sandwiches. "Oh, yeah! I remember watching your house from my bedroom window, hoping to get a glimpse of you.....and all the other "ceps" that make a young man of his age look so yummy. I wondered, in a very private part of myself, whether he'd ever held a girl in those arms. "Did you really? Uhh...think I was so pretty?..a pre-d Dee. "No, really, Deirdre! God! When you 'n' Frank first moved here, when I was...oh, ten...I thought you were the prettiest lady I'd ever seen!
he confessed. "An' you looked just like you do now! "Wow! You look super hot!" he exclaimed. "What'd you do to your hair?" "Oh, just had a dye job," I said, beginning to fix sandwiches. "Going back to my original color. Got tired of the old style after. Suddenly, I wanted to look like what I was...an attractive, 32-year-old Italian-American woman who had a lot of life yet to live. I arrived home after noon with my hair its natural tint: a rich, dark brown, with auburn highlights. Something that might help eliminate the frightening, flashing images of Saturday night's assault as they recurred in my mind. I wanted to rid myself of the old Deirdre. In a strange sense, I despised her. I did, however, tell my gynecologist, a woman in the same complex as our dental office. She fully understood my not calling the police, but didn't necessarily approve of it. She examined me and took some samples for lab work, and referred me to a crisis counselor in the same building. Neil McCarthy, for the week off, pleading that I'd be too busy overseeing the remodeling. So, I'd gone to the dental office where I work and gotten permission for the vacation time I needed and, while there, had stolen a handful of Percodan tablets from the pharmaceutical cabinet. Now, it was to him that I looked for continuing emotional and physical care...unfortunately, a dim and unrealistic prospect. Jack had stayed with me after the until Monday morning, both to apply a soothing balm to my emotional wounds and to commence the lengthy remodel project on our house that was just beginning...sending repeated alarms to my body to have a family. Subconsciously, probably, that was the reason I'd begun my torrid love affair with Jack Taylor, the dashing, 40-year-old home designer who now represented the only hope I had to salvage the wreckage of my existence. Even though we were "equals" in modern American parlance financially, educationally, and otherwise I'd consistently been a failure, in terms of both will and imagination. Unfortunately, we had gone beyond the point of forgiving and moving on. With Frank, I'd assumed the role of the passive wife, so typical of women of Italian lineage, and had deluded myself into thinking that I was persevering...that I was the binding force that had kept together the family unit. Worse yet, I feared that the wall of resentment that Frank and I had constructed between ourselves over nearly ten years of marriage would only get stronger...more impenetrable. I now realized my part in building that wall, thereby defending myself against all men whom, at base, I feared.
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