I'm Mel's Dad Ch. 04 - Brush & Board

FOUR

Brush and Board

"What about the girl?"

"The girl... yes, the girl. I don't know, Sweet, that's all she wrote."

"What will they do?"

"I suspect they'll try to find out who she is and get her home."

"What if they don't?"

"Yeah... what if they don't?"

You sit on your heels beside my armchair, your head resting on my thigh, me stroking your hair as we watch the fire, thoughts burning like flames, leaping like sparks and spiraling upward to disappear as smoke.

Neither of us talk, or move, other than my stroking your honey tresses and you occasionally nuzzling my thigh. Your hands rest on the pile your hair gathered to lie in your lap.

I comb my fingers through your hair.

The finest fabric in the world grows from your hair in gold-silver strands that have never known the blade, it shimmers and burns cool in the fire-light.

I stand and walk to the kitchen, you follow, as if tethered - collared and leashed.

You've been doing this for a couple weeks now, often staying naked, not talking much and following me around the house, standing, kneeling, sitting or lying beside me.

This is an outgrowth of the activities we've taken up over the several months since you read Mrs Wilson's texts about the girl at the Farm.

We have not discussed this, but you started doing it.

I like it

So you continue.

We often stroke, pet, bump or grope each other in passing.

You have also gotten quite talented with using your openings to tease, delight and...

Well, you are very talented.

And my cock benefits constantly.

I tell you to get the bread from the pie safe, just so I can watch you stretch to reach up to the high shelf. You are so beautiful. Particularly when you are taut.

"And the board."

You turn and lift the board from the rack it shares with the cookie sheets and such.

Just watching you turn and move and walk is such a pleasure.

I am glad you have chosen no clothes as your at-home attire.

You do wear a fine-mesh gold choker about an inch and a half wide snug around your neck - you have not taken it off since I fastened the clasps on your birthday.

I had ordered it to measure so that it would not cut anything off, but would also, never fail to be applying pressure.

It sets off your skin magnificently, as I knew it would.

And it draws many favorable comments when you are out in public - shopping, dining or at school.

No one knows what it means to us.

It is an emblem of your unconditional surrender to me.

Not something I had asked for but when you brought it up, I became instantly hard - realizing that this was something I had wanted for a long time.

And the fact that it was you, my lovely daughter, asking me to take you on was beyond fantasy for me.

Sometimes you also wear your woven silk bracelets and anklets, you have several sets in different colors that you found on etsy or one of those places.

Again, these are perfectly acceptable for public wear - because they do not betray their true use as cuffs.

Though I suspect they do raise some suspicion among those who would know.

You lay the loaf on the board and carry it, ceremoniously.

You cross the kitchen in measured steps, the board resting on both hands just below your proud tits, the bread carried as if in a ritual.

You bow your head as you lift your offering.

So cute.

I smile, amused.

I lift the board ceremoniously from your hands and raise it, catching your firm tits as I do and rolling your tits up with it, until they snap free, drop and bounce delightfully back to their proper place. You wriggle your shoulders, you tits bobble and dance with that action.

"Get the knife."

You turn and walk to the knife rack - a magnetic strip hanging over the butcher-block counter.

You pull off the bread knife and turn to bring it to me.

You offer the knife to me, handle first.

I slide the loaf onto the counter, pick up the breadboard - and press it up against the bottom of your beautiful tits.

You raise your hands to hold the breadboard so that it supports your perfect mounds.

You gaze up at me and I watch your eyes as I drag the rip-teeth of the breadknife across your left nipple - not cutting, nowhere near, but chattering as it rolls your turgid nub along the bamboo, your nipple attempting to roll back to its natural place, but catching on the next tooth immediately.

You eyes flame, your breath catches and you glance down to watch what's happening.

"Look at me."

You raise your eyes, returning to gaze into mine.

Open, trusting, curious.

"I'd like you to pierce these and wear gold rings through them."

"OK."

"I'll take you in for that mid-week sometime."

You look disappointed.

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No. I want to. I just don't like having some stranger do it."

"I see."

"Do you?"

"OK, maybe I don't. What's up."

"I want YOU to do it."

"Me? I don't know nothin' bout piercin' no nipples."

You laugh. "You silly, there's nothing to it. Jessica and Nancy did it a slumber party."

"That sleep over a couple weeks ago?"

"Yes. And I've been thinking about it ever since." you pause, "... Now that you brought it up."

I smile. "OK. I'll do that - but not now. I have other plans for this afternoon."

In excitement you bounce on your heels, lifting your nipple against the sharp teeth of the knife, trapping it against the bread board.

A couple of the teeth bite into the top of your nipple.

You drop the board, I raise the knife and immediately suck the few drops of blood from your nipple.

Then I suck your nipple.

Your stone hard nipple.

My tongue-tip snakes over your erectness, driving it into the firm softness of your tits.

You moan as I reach up to pinch and roll the equally stiff rosy peak of your other tit, giving it a lifting tug and letting it drop.

I love that.

I had planned on making sandwiches - but plans change. I lay the knife down and take up the bread-board.

I turn, and still gripping your nipple, walk out of the kitchen.

You follow, now, not because you have developed the habit, the pleasurable habit, of following me, but because I am using your tit as a leash.

You follow.

Because you want to.

It is difficult for you going up the stairs, as your tit is pulled up nearly flat against your chest, my hand at your collar bone.

But you manage, panting with the exertion.

And with the excitement.

I like that.

I walk through our bedroom, keeping a pace to keep your tit stretched to it's max, and swinging you by your nipple, toss you into our master bath.

"Clean up.

Totally, thoroughly."

Not knowing my plan, you know what I mean and spend the next quarter hour doing just that. Shower, hair wash, douche, enema.

You emerge sparkling clean and glowing.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"You know."

"I don't understand."

"Did you get yourself off?"

You look down and bashfully admit you did.

"Good girl."

You look up and smile, "But, I douched again after."

I smile, "Good girl."

I am now naked and taking you by the hand, lead you regally to our bed, your delicate hand perched daintily on my rugged workman's hand.

I guide you to lie face down on our bed, with your knees at the foot.

I take each wrist and lay them together at your waist.

And just because it's so tempting, I spank that saucy, firm ass.

I tie your wrists together.

And your knees.

Your calves hang free beyond the foot of our bed.

I kneel beside you on the bed and, taking up your hairbrush from our bedside table, I bring it to your lips to kiss.

You do.

It IS a beautiful piece of silver-work. It was your mother's, left behind when she left.

All close-set boar's bristles of varying lengths and on the back an intricately detailed shallow relief depicting of scenes from the Decameron.

So wondrously wrought.

So delicately incised.

So fucking erotic.

Debauchery that lives eternal thanks to Uncle Gino.

And it leaves the most impressive illustrations with each strike to soft and tender skin.

"YAAHHH!!" you scream in surprise and pain, then relax with a deep sigh.

I hit you again and you waggle your sweet butt, an illustrated plea for another.

And I grant it.

Again.

And again.

Your ass is soon a beautiful broadside of illustrative cameos the size of my hand. About half a dozen.

I pause to admire the glory.

You have the most fascinating ass I've ever seen. And as you know I've seen a lot of ass. I look for it.

Her ass is what initally attracted me to your mother, but yours is even finer.

Indeed.

I spank you stiff-fingered on your near cheek and you bounce in surprise. You were expecting the brush.

And now, I give it to you.

"HeeYAA!"

And another and again until my arm is sore and I notice a few little drops of blood where some of the high-points converged to break the skin.

I did NOT intend that.

What's going on today?

This is twice I've made you bleed.

I'm so sorry.

I lean down and kiss and lick and suck the blood, and they all stopped leaking.

So, of course, I stopped.

As if!

I scooted around and lay on top of you, weighing you into our bed and continuing my attentions to you beautiful red and swelling ass.

This position lays my stiffness into your silken crown.

It feels so good to nuzzle into that pale golden nest.

It must feel good to you, too, because your wriggle your head, your hair caressing me.... My back arches up and for just a moment, I leave off your beautiful red ass.

But, I get back to it fast and start licking along your crevice.

I reach deep and can just touch your sweet crinkled anus.

You moan and turn your head beneath your hair.

You take my silver-gold silk sheathed cock into your mouth like a bar gag.

You lick, suck, bite, raggle and I get stiffer and harder and begin to throb.

Almost painful.

In a good way.

In the best way.

I roll off to lay beside you, I wrap some more of your hair around my rod and press between your lips and teeth, to rub your hair along your tongue.

You gag on the hair so I draw back.

And drive back in again.

And again.

From the noise you are making it sounds like you are trying to cough up a hairball.

I suppose you are.

I pull out and step over to pick up the breadboard.

You watch perplexed.

Suddenly it dawns on you and your eyes snap wide.

You draw in a breath and hold it.

I bring the board down onto your ass from the ceiling.

This flattens your butt into your pelvis and drives your cunt down into the mattress.

You were prepared and take it in as the wild pain gift that it is.

You struggle in the throes of this gift and I delight watching you thrash about on your belly and tits as you accept the gift in the spirit in which it was intended.

You calm down and seem to relax so much that you sink into the mattress.

You look at me and smile, close your eyes and hum out a sweet sigh.

You arch up off the bed so that only your pelvis and thighs are on the mattress. You had not expected me to slam the board into your ass again.

Should have - didn't.

You are slammed back down onto the bed, crying in desperate pants.

Again, I am delighted, watching your horizontal snake-dance.

I stroke my cock.

I have never been this hard. It's like ivory.

It actually hurts.

I reach down to grip a handful of hair and wrap it around my cock, and as you writhe, I move that silken sheath along my shaft.

I am getting close and consider where to aim.

You suddenly stop your mad movements and leap like a snake, swallowing me hair and all.

You jam yourself down, draw back and just go all the way, driven by a hunger I've not seen.

I very quickly exploded into your voracious throat.

Your throat was so open I don't think my shot even paused in your mouth.

I pull out and you start hacking on your hair again.

You catch your breath and look at me and, raising your head, raising your mouth of my cock.

You smile at me.

Such a beauty.

SLAM, again with the breadboard on your ass.

You don't even flinch, just start humping our bed.

Your eyes pegged to mine.

I look at you, face down on our bed, wrists bound behind you, knees tied together and at the edge of the bed, the rest of your legs hanging out in the air.

And your ass a swelling mass of red, with a bit of purple blooming within it.

I sit beside you and rub your ass, half way up your back and back to your flaming butt.

I squeeze and pat you and smooth over your curves.

Damn girl you are hot.

Hot as you are to touch, I can only imagine the fires burning within.

I drag my middle finger along your groove and reach down to your crease.

I drag some of your fluids back up over your asshole, then dip back down for more.

I smear your nectar along your tender groove from asshole to clit, taking a little time to circle both when I reach those termini.

I reach in with my two middle fingers, framing your puffy pussy lips with index and little fingers. I stroke deep and pull shallow, all the while squeezing your lips between my fingers, pulling them, stretching them in with each plunge, stretching them out with each withdrawal.

You have dropped into that lovely keening moan when you have nothing to say, but a lot to express.

Continuing my steady rhythmic actions in your cunt, I press my thumb into your asshole, your sphincter trained to swallow any intruder.

I pump and pump and you get louder and louder, both your lower holes under assault.

I curl my fingers inside your cunt, wrapping over your pelvic bridge to meet my thumb.

I have you firmly in my grip and start dragging you back and forth, scrubbing your tits and belly on our bed.

You suddenly fall silent and just lay there shivering. Your cunt and asshole, which had been eagerly participating in this action, quit altogether and you lie there as if deflated.

I pull out of you.

Well, that is my intent, but you clutch my fingers with both orifices and stiffen - full on rigid.

I have never seen this before and don't know how to respond - so I just hold there, your cunt and asshole clamping my fingers powerfully.

After a moment or two, you relax, exhale and groan with pleasure.

I'm certainly glad for that.

I pull out of you and rest my hand on your curved ass - a perfect fit.

We sit - well, I sit and you lie there - in silence for a... for long enough.

Then we both realize that we've been looking into each other's eyes since you went rigid. We both smile and sort of nod.

I get back to the plan.

I untie your knees and cinch a loop around each ankle, and pull your legs wide and up to the tackle at the top of the bedposts. We put those in as part of the design of this special purpose bed. Looking at it, it was simply a rather ornate four-poster - and also large, a double queen, about 9x6. With cushions and pillows and covers, blankets, sheets chosen to please us with contact.

My wife and I had designed it together, and used it together, until she went away.

Its purpose lay dormant and, frankly, rarely thought of for the years before this season between you and I.

The bed is so happy to be back in use.

I draw your ankles high and wide until your pelvis is lifted just off the mattress. You, naturally, wait patiently and accede to my every action.

I run a line between your wrists and thread the ends through some loops in the post about three quarters the way up the eight foot post. I pull both ends and your arms are pulled up and back, causing your back to arch as your shoulders are lifted off our mattress. I continue pulling until your tits are lifted off our bed.

I tie off the ends and leave you bent so that only your abs touch our covers.

I pat your spread pussy as I survey your lovely body arched in this position. Legs stretched wide and pulled high to lift your hips off our bed, arms stretched up and back to pull your shoulders and tits off our bed.

It looks like a simple tie, but I know that given time it becomes quite strenuous.

So I go down to the kitchen to make the sandwiches I'd intended before I was forced by circumstance to accelerate the plan.

I sit at the island, eating a cheese sandwich piled high with spinach, watercress, pickles and various spreads. I hold a cold bottle, take a tug every so often, for some reason never setting it down.

I think about you, upstairs, in our bed, arched back with your belly the only contact with our blankets. I figure you'll be doing all you can to lower your cunt down to hump our quilted down cover.

I wish I'd thought to push a handball into your mouth, I know that's your favorite gag.

I know you like having your jaw stretched and held open wide.

So I accommodate you as often as I can.

I love you so much, Treasure.

So much.

I think about you, upstairs, in our bed, arched back severely because I have bound your arms wrenched behind you and pulled high. I suspect this will cause pain as your muscles relax in fatigue and your ligaments relax under the insistent and irrestable pull of gravity.

I think of the sounds as your body relinquishes another block, another knot of tension. Tension stores you didn't even know you had, but which blocked you from being fully supple and free.

If I were up there in our bedroom with you, I'd be thrilled with the impact of each release, many of which no doubt, snap and crack in the letting go.

I take another big bite of the sandwich.

I take a slug from the bottle.

I think about the time we've had, the changes we've undergone and undertaken.

We are now totally different people.

I have not felt this relaxed, open, true, since your mom left.

For a time I tried to find what we had had, what we had lost - you watched me while you went through your own struggle with her absence.

You watched me bounce from one woman to another. I don't know if you knew what I was looking for.

I don't know I if knew.

I do know we've found it.

Found it when reading about the Wilson Farm.

This broke something in both of us and led us... to where we are now.

You, upstairs, in our bed, arched back severely, humping your abs as much as you can in your very limited way. But, I'm sure you're working on it.

Me, taking another bite of sandwich, sitting nude at the island counter, nursing a cold bottle.

Both of us very happy.

Together.

I sit and examine the last bite of the sandwich, I hold it before my eyes and examine it like it was a valuable heirloom.

Then I eat it.

I think of you stressed, your spine pulled back into your very severe arch, shoulders rotated to the rear and holding much of your weight. Your legs are spread as wide as I dared to pull them and are lifted high enough to lift your hips off our bed and hold your abs to graze against our cover.

I go upstairs to our room and stand in the door frame, watching you. You do not seem to be aware of my presence.

You do not seem to be aware of much of anything.

You are in a strenuous position and have fully succumbed to it.

You have apparently fallen asleep - or lost consciousness - and while your strongly bowed position arced your spine severely with your tits thrust forward like the figurehead on some perverted pirate ship - well, not perverted, just a beautiful naked woman bound and displayed with tits aggressively over-mounting the prow-wave.

And your arms pulled back, thrusting your beautiful tits more forcefully forward.

Your wide spread legs reaching up and out towards the top of the posts at the foot of our bed.

I step into the bathroom to piss and the noise of water hitting water is echoed by your breathy mumble. I guess you are awake.

My cock is about half-pumped, not stiff, but full. I cradle my member in the fingers of my right hand and move back into the bedroom.

I get up on the bed and kneel among the honey-gold silk lying on our cover beneath your downcast head. I lift my cock to tap against your forehead and you lift your head and look at my dick.

You seem to study it for a minute, then look up to me, your eyes half lidded, your mouth open.

I arch back, lifting my pelvis and rubbing my thickness on your cheeks.

You roll your mouth over my prick and suck me in.

This is a very awkward position for you, but you make the game attempt.

I pull out of your voracious mouth and palm your forward thrust tits. You lift your face to watch me as I tenderly weigh and massage your breasts, press them to flatten against your ribs and roll your nipples.

I pinch those thick nubs and twist and pull them.

I toy with your tits, delighting in their perfection - mass, weight, density, sculpted shape, all perfect and all thrust forward towards me, enforced by the uncomfortable position I have allowed you to settle into.

I openhand the outside of your left tit.

Hard.

It slaps against the your right tit.

I immediately do the same to your right. And begin a deliberate, hard-impact exploration of the many ways these carnal delights respond.

I begin to experiment with angle and force and stiffness of hand.

Open hand, stiff fingered, curled and fists.

Slapping, spanking, punching.

You hold your head up and watch my eyes the entire time, expression unreadable.

I also watch your eyes, burning lust no doubt openly evident in mine.

I rise up again, my cock now fully extended and very stiff. I trace your lips with my cockhead, not allowing you to do more than lick the head.

I move off the bed and stand between your legs, such a wondrous sight.

I step up to drape my balls into your hands and you immediately start rolling them in your fingers.

I stiffen more and step forward a bit more. You are, by my ropes, forced to reach back blindly, but you see quite well through your fingers.

You tease and draw me to you.

Your finger tips reach to the sensitive area behind my balls and after a time my balls rest between your palms.

Your finger tips begin to circle and tease my asshole. The sensation causes me to freeze, holding steady, allowing you full access and direction.

How is it that you can make my cock even harder.

It's too big for my fuckin' skin.

Huh-ha - it IS my fucking skin.

I gaze in wonder at your ass, your dense glutes compressed tightly by the stress of this position.

I reach down and fondle and stroke and pat.

We exchange energy for a time, your fingers on my balls and asshole, mine on your bum and cunt.

I suddenly turn, stepping over your arms, duck under and stand between your elbows, spreading your arms - likely paining your shoulders, but, no complaint from you.

I bend my knees a bit, hold my cock down to point at your pussy and step forward to enter the liquid inferno.

You are so wet, so loose, so eagerly open, there is absolutely no resistence.

Well, none from you. My dick is bent so far down it does hurt.

Still, nothing without cost.

For relief, I bend over and place my hands on our comforter, one on each side of your harshly arched torso.

I lift onto my toes and begin short, swift strokes, fulcrumed on the rope-lifted and wide spread V of your crotch.

When I rise up to plunge deeper, I spread your arms wider, rotating your shoulder outward, when I drive down, withdrawing, I tap the back of your skull with my forehead.

I can't go very fast, but it's a speed we are both enjoying so I keep at it until my calves tire.

I wiggle out from between your arms and legs and sit on our bed looking at you, arched severly; Accepting, enduring, welcoming, craving the sex-infused pain.

You raise your head to look at me. And smiling, glance at the bedside table.

Your mother's brush.

I look back at you and nod.

Twisting, reaching to pick up the brush I turn my back to you and hear a noise.

A sharp intake of breath.

Ahhh, yes. You are ready.

I sit cross-legged in front of you, half-lotus, and reach out to cup and heft your perfect handful tits, so like your mother's. This position thrusts them forward, they are the first thing touchable from this angle. And not just the nipples, their entirety is offered to me by the ribs of your chest.

I tweak and twist, tap and pull your nipples and they grow even harder.

I wonder if they feel like my cock does - like the skin is too small for the swelling.

Ahhh.

I smack the brush hard, hard as I can, against the outside of your left tit.

Immediately turn the brush to repeat that on the back swing on the outside of your right.

You eyes shut, then pop open and your mouth sort of flops half open.

I study the angle, choose the trajectory and land a full stroke against your right nipple, driving it in, flattening it, loving the aggressive, defiant rebound. You let loose an open throated scream.

Haven't heard that in quite a while. Not since the afternoon by the creek bend.

And it is followed by another, in a slightly lower register and not quite as loud, when I do the same to your left.

You look at me with a daring, mischievous smile and a twinkling eye.

It is clear what you want. You want me to smash and bang your tits black and blue.

So I make my decision and change my plan.

I turn the brush roundside to and drag your mammary flesh with the stiff boar's bristles. First just shaping around the perfect geometry of your breasts, then a little harder to tickle and chutter along, then a little harder to scratch, then a little harder to scrub.

And I do.

I work on your out-thrust tits like I'd clean tires on your Transit Connect.

Scrubbing hard.

Delighting in the way your tit-flesh responds, changing shape with the dragging of the boar-hair. Leaving parallel red tracks with which I create a flaming network over your delicate bulging beauties.

I slam the bristles into the inside of your right tit.

"kaCGHIiii!"

Into the inside of your left tit.

"KuuhHunggg! Ahhnn."

I alternate blows between the two, driving them into a frenzy while the rest of you tries to follow, frustrated by the strictness of your position and your bonds.

You simply scream.

No attempt to articulate. Or communicate.

You exhale profoundly each time my blows impact your outthrust tenderness.

I begin to hear the beginnings of a rasp in your throat and decide that this is enough.

Of this.

I lay the brush back on the table, sit on our bed with you between my legs and, gripping your shoulders, pull myself forward to kiss your throat. You head is thrown back so far, your delicious throat is offered.

My favorite position.

Of course, you know that and toss it to me whenever you wish to compel me.

I kiss my way down to your tortured tits and lave and lick and kiss and suck and tongue.

For days.

Well, for a very long time anyway.

I go to the foot of the bed and release your ankles.

Well, not release, but lower them down so that your knees touch the floor at the foot of our bed, but your ankles are still held up, touching your butt. I stroke my cock, still a bit crusty with your cuntjuice, meditatively and contemplate the scene before me.

Back to the plan.

I bind each calf tightly to its thigh with a camel hitch. I pull the cords attached to your ankles that are reeved through the top of the posts at the foot of our bed, lifting your pelvis off our mattress. I lift you so the height of your asshole is the perfect mate of my cock.

I make sure of this by laying my dick in your groove, my balls draping against your cunt.

Perfect.

Leaving you like that I go down to the kitchen, pull the copper hose nozzle out of the freezer, dump a bunch of icecubes from the tray into a plastic bag. On the way out, the Bar-B-Q rack catches my eye and, grabbing the basting brush and grill-fork, I turn back for some honey and yogurt.

"Are you done yet, Dad?" you ask, as I step through the door to our bedroom, returning.

"Done? Done? I don't know the meaning of the word 'done'," I laugh.

You make no amused sound.

I poke your butt with the Q-fork.

"Done."

Now you laugh.

Seeing you there, as you are, arms pulled high and back, ankles bound at butt, pelvis lifted to just the right height, I lose track of the plan. I lay all this new stuff on the floor beside our bed and just step in and ram into your ass.

You squeal, a high-pitched skree - totally unprepared for this assault.

Dry, with no preliminaries and no mercy.

Overwhelmed by desire, uncontrolled, insistent, overpowering, I enter your smaller hole. The rim of your anus follows me in, folding and rolling as I penetrate in one stroke. Not all the way in, only about half-way, but your clenching tightness threatens to peel the skin off my dick so I halt. I pause. I withdraw a bit.

I start to press in again and you whimper.

Not your usual cute whimper of encouragement, but a whimper of pain that you're reluctant to complain about.

In your desire to please me.

To concede to me.

To allow me everything.

I like that.

But I love you and wish to do nothing to diminish your pleasure - or your life.

I look down and see the yogurt cup. I pull out of you, bend over, pick it up and open it, wiping off the foil seal on your butt.

I flop a glop of yogurt onto the top of your ass crack and, using my cock, smear it slowly down along the groove of your ass, down to your cunt, then back up to collect more and repeat.

I ram into you without warning in mid-smear, driving balls deep with no pause, no hesitation.

THIS time your squeal is a squeal of delight and I pound into you as fast, hard and deep as I can.

My hips batter your feet, smashing them against your thighs with each powerful stroke.

Were your wrists not strung between the posts, I'd be driving you forward on our bed - but, they are, so all that pounding is absorbed by your shoulders, drawn back in the most un-natural position and drawn back tight.

Your keen of erotic delight fills the room, echoing over my typical silence.

I hear you come, feel you come, three or four times. Then I freeze, thrust into your milking ass and shoot my shot into your guts.

I am weak. Dizzy.

I release your wrists and flop down on top of you, crushing you into our bed, then roll off to lie face-up, panting, beside you. You pat my coated cock, give me a few tender strokes, then snuggle in tight, your tits pressed against my arm. Your hand lies draped over my cock and balls, I work my arm under your head so that it rests on my shoulder.

We lie like that for a long time, the sun fades, darkness envelopes us and I begin to drift to sleep, snuggled on top of the crumpled comforter on our bed.

"What about the girl?" you whisper.

"The girl?"

"The girl. What about the girl?"

"I don't know. I'll have to ask Mrs Wilson."

"You will."

"I will."