She turned her head, to press her cheek against my chest, instead of just bumping her nose into my shoulder. She started reaching up on tiptoes to kis... my cheek.“I like your beard,” she said, one day. “It’s soft.”“I like my beard, too,” I said, a little confused. I’d had a beard ever since Lucy died and I was too distraught to go through daily rituals like that. It turned out having a beard wasn’t so bad, and then I found out it had some advantages, so I’d never shaved after that. This was the. It hurt - it genuinely hurt....and I loved it. I craved it. I was aroused and ashamed and confused and desired and wanted to be filled- and all at the same time. I was experiencing a cocktail of emotions that he discarded with each thrust. My eyes almost in the back of my head, my screams muffled by the cushion I clamped down on so tightly just moments before. He was thrusting and grunting. Grunting and thrusting. His thrusts getting deeper and his grunts getting louder. I knew it was his turn. More

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