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“Did you wear the stockings as I asked?” you inquire as your hands pull my dress up and find the edge of my thigh highs. “Good, now bend over,” you command. I am so turned on by your control, I do as you say. You slide my dress up slightly and begin playing with the thin material covering my mound. I am getting very wet from your touch. I suddenly feel something hard and cold pressing against me. “Relax, babe. Remember those Ben Wa’s you wanted. You are going to feel them inside you all night.” You push one then two balls deep inside me. I am overwhelmed by the sense of fullness. You stand me back up and kiss me tenderly. “Ready to go?” you ask. “Um, yeah. I guess.” You take my hand and lead me outside. You took me out to dinner to one of my favorite restaurants. We share a bottle of wine and talk. We are both enjoying the meal, but I can’t concentrate on anything but this need deep within me. You know you are torturing me, but you love anticipation. Finally, dinner is over and you. Her natural highlights seemed to be accentuated in that manner, although some grey was just starting to appear. I felt guilty for that too. Jesus, but she was only thirty-two and going grey already. I felt guilty for feeling guilty. Wasn’t that a form of self-pity after all? In all the trials we were experiencing, not once had Sushi (a nick name), ever employed self-pity. Hadn’t she been the strong one? Only crying at night when she thought I was asleep. I was not allowed to comfort her in these times, it was a private grief, but I wanted to hold her, cling to her and share the burden of emotion. I knew though, as she did, I would just unload my sorrow and guilt, heaping it on her too thin shoulders. I only had to think back to the moment the doctor told us in a small cubicle sized private office, that James would not see his next birthday. I remember doing the mathematics and screaming in anguish, ‘That’s only six months away!’ I remember how I howled, I remember how I broke down.
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