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'Your first blow-job', I asked him, and he sheepishly smiled, 'Well there's more where that came from, plus more than that, if you keep your fucking mouth shut', I continued, and his face became serious, as the proposition sank in.'Here', I said advancing on him, opening my housecoat and exposing my breasts, 'Feel them', and he reached up and fondled my tits, my hand guiding him over the flesh, showing him how to pluck and twist the nipples.'Does that feel good?' He did not reply as he was engrossed in pulling the nipples, 'Here, try down here', and I pulled my knicker elastic out and guided his small hand onto my cunt, 'Mmmmmmmmm', I moaned, 'Put your fingers up me', and suddenly I was writhing on his hand as his fist was small enough to go inside.'Make a fist', I grunted, 'Tighter baby', and I held his wrist with both my hands as I mounted and eased him inside my pussy.'Oh fucking hell', I moaned as I wanked myself with his fisting, then I released one hand and touched his face. That's how cops die or slide into a bottle. That's where I was until one of those chance intersections of lives pulled me out; one of those pitches life throws at you that you can decide to turn away from, or allow it to change you forever.A loss of that perspective, a loss of my ability to remember the magic in life and the accumulated weight of too many arrows and too much caring about them had led me to that hotel room in Seattle. I hadn't felt this bad in years and while I was in town to deliver a paper at a conference and had been well received, I didn't make much of a difference. I was at the point where I was counting days 'till retirement, a practice I'd always abhorred among public servants. That night I had showered, downed a vodka and tonic and was looking out the curtains of my room across the hotel's atrium. Years ago I would have looked out of that atrium and felt the hum of life: laughter, debate, pain, lust, love, joy and confusion, but in some kind of context that.
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