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Poking and prodding and squeezing as you kiss my face. Unsatisfied, you move lower, and fumble with the button on my pants.I wear nothing beneath the ...antyhose; shorn even of my strawberry bush by morticians you realize likely took liberties with me already. Your hand slips underneath the waist of the nylons, and you marvel at the smoothness of my mound. No matter the fucking the morticians may have given me, they at least cleaned me up well.You fingers play for a moment at my lips--one on each. Joyce brought her home early on a Saturday morning. ‘Now you and I have got to make a deal. If you’re having a bad time, a bad day, you need to call me.’ Joyce said with authority. ‘I will. I really will. I’ll be fine.’ ‘Well just in case, you’re not so fine, here, take this. It’s my phone number along with the national suicide hot line, 1-800-273-8255.’ Joyce stuffed the paper into Maggie’s shirt. Maggie hugged Joyce and opened the door to her home. It was brighter than she remembered it.. More

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