But he wanted me to see every detail; to be close enough to smell it. I watched as her tight little hole stretched to accept him, haltingly took him i..., then slowly spat him back out again; so vulgar, but such a sight.” “How did her asshole look?” I pushed her for the graphic, lurid details I craved as my rock hard cock, ground painfully against the edge of the sofa. “I looked inside her.” “And then?” “He told me to suck his cock to make it nice and slippery for her. I did it. I could taste her. It was the time for fixing things. A curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things we keep.It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that re-fixing, eating, renewing, I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant you knew there’d always be more.But then my mother died, and on that clear summer’s night, in the warmth of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there. More

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