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The TV had obviously been put on and left on by someone and it was from the changing light that I got my view. There was someone sitting on the sofa, a man, and on top of him and very excitedly bouncing up and down was Ashley, she was still completely naked and most probably drunk. She was riding him like a dog that drags its ass across the floor trying to scratch an itch it can’t scratch; she was grinding her body like she was trying to break off his cock. And by the look of it she loved it. I stood there for ten minutes or so watching her ride him, my cock stirring as I recalled the last time I saw Ashley riding Matt’s cock. I was wondering how this scenario had come to be when I spied an empty bottle of Jack D on the sofa, close to where Matt was sitting, ‘that explains why he is not jumping up and freaking out at the thought of fucking his sister’ I thought to myself, ‘but why is Ashley in here in the first place fucking him’. Those thoughts faded to the back of my mind as I. " At that I began to roll outthe parchment on the table."Odd, huh? Wow! Great parchment!" She gently turned both pieces overthan looked at me quizzically. "They're blank." I know. I thought it was weird too. The guy went on and on about usingthem for some therapy exercise, but I thought they'd be great to makesome artwork ourselves to frame and hang them in our room as sort of apersonal touch, but still in theme. And I couldn't pass up $10 for bothpieces." $10!?! But these must be over 200 years old!" I know; I don't get it either." I went to the kitchen to grab some water from the fridge."What type of exercise was he talking about?"I proceeded to relay his instructions to her to the best, then followedit up with my own bit of commentary, "Seems like a silly waste." I don't know," came her response to my surprise. "I think it could benice to do something personal like that, then decorate the other sideand hang them up on the wall. Maybe when we're old and gray we couldlook at them and.
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I say nothing. She says she’ll meet me there in an hour. I recognize her at once. She hasn’t changed, not really. She wears her hair in pigtails now, with the tips died blue. Her arms are half sleeved with tattoos, dragons writhing together in an act of violence or copulation. Otherwise, she is dressed in business clothes, an ankle length black skirt, and a black top with spaghetti straps that shows off her cleavage without quiet being immodest. She no longer wears the nose ring, but I think her ears have even more piercing than before. She is beautiful. We have a beer and we talk. She has been married and divorced. She has been living in New York a little less than a year. She works in information technology. She lost her job in 2001, but she got hired by a different firm, and moved here last fall. I tell her about my own life. We drink a beer, and another. We have finished our second beer. Suddenly neither of us seems to be able to find anything to say. I look into her eyes, still.

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