Dylan stood there. He didn't hug me back, but he wasn't even bouncing me."This is my fault," I had the courage to say. "This is all my fault, Dylan. A...d I will never forgive myself for this pain that you had to suffer because of me."Dylan wasn't even paying attention to my words, as he kept talking of that night."She said she would have never given me birth if she knew I would have ended up like this. She said she should have caused herself a miscarriage. She said she wished I would have died. Wasn't she the one who wrote about women's fantasies?" Not to be denied long, she reached for and tweaked her own nipple, pulling it up and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger."The same," I replied. "Did you read the story -- or was it a recount of a fantasy? -- about the woman, a mother as I recall, who was wearing a long white dress and who went walking with her son one day?"Now pulling on both her nipples, Martina complained, "What're we doing? Are we making love, or are we having a. More

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