Usually he was merciful, allowing her to find her own release in his absence, but this time when he left he’d forbidden it, partly in his anger at h...r disobedience over another matter, and partly because it was his whim and he could. His anger had hurt like a physical blow, far more than this restrictive punishment did, it had worried at her like a canker since he had left on his trip. Sleep was elusive in her aroused state, and Honey tossed and turned on the covers, the sheets balling between. But Miss Gilda was short, and stocky. Her breasts were large, proportionate to her frame, and her hair was a tangled mess of orange-red that dangled down to her buttocks. Staring at it, as I perhaps too often did, reminded me of an old print I once saw, by a surrealist. It was supposed to be a copy of Vermeer’s Lacemaker, but had come out as a depiction of the artist’s sister, naked, bending over and about to be penetrated by several imperial phalluses. The sublimity of the artistic moment, it. More

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