‘I want you Ros – I want you right now!’ I saw that her face was as flushed as mine must have been, her eyes gleaming wildly and without any hes...tation she too began to get out of her clothes. It was as though we were having a race to see who could strip first, each watching the other with an increasing hunger. Ros was far quicker than I, her skirt and blouse were on the floor in a trice and I felt my still confined cock throbbing and jerking at merely the sight of her and when she took off her. And I did. Over the next two weeks my boss became like my boyfriend. He would open doors for me. He would ask me nicely to do things. He drove me home to my foster parent’s house after work and picked me up there a few times. He didn’t have to do any of these things because I was technically an employee, in more than one way. First and foremost I served soft serve ice cream at an ice cream parlor where he was the boss and son of the owner. Secondly I was a . . . for lack of a better word, a. The face was awful, no two ways about it. The face gave no room for ambiguity. It was dreadful, and surprising. To George, who had given life to it, it was remarkable. ‘Wow!’ She admitted to the head. ‘You need a name, I think.’ And it did need a name–it needed identifying, so that it would be less surprising. It needed to be christened ‘ATTILLA!’, or ‘RAPE!’, or ‘MUSTARD GAS POISONING!’. It needed police protection and immediate counselling. George was twenty-seven, and she thought like an. My grandfather was already on the phone with Wade. Their conversation was light-hearted, filled with anecdotes and quips about married life. J.D. intentionally made me wait to talk with my new husband. I finally managed to wrestle the phone from his hands. We talked for almost an hour, prattling on about our future plans. The howling winds soothed me into a deep sleep that night. I cuddled a large pillow to my breasts, pretending it was Wade. Soon it would be! The next morning, all but two of.
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