What I say, that's enough forher. Whether she believes me almost doesn't matter. She'll hold my hand in hers, and tells me how if a touch of nail file...here and there would be just right. She'll grimace over my old brush,and stroke it through my hair, murmuring how to cut it here, and there,to give a little shape, to comb this into bangs, would be quite nice,don't I agree?A sea of secret whisperings to slip into, of subtle suggestion: This iswhat we do, and this. We think that this ought to be. . my god... am I still drunk?Her panties, slightly creased, appeared to be glued to her slit. I could smell her... not her perfume... her... her sex! It looked so juicy, like a ripe, peeled peach. I had this nasty urge to... to... oh, jesus... to touch her there. How depraved... I vowed to never drinkI quickly slipped her stockings from her legs, refocused on massaging her feet. My heart was pounding, the room becoming uncomfortably warm... I could hardly breath!With my head lowered and my eyes. More

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