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Oh, oh....No. I am denied. There - footsteps on the path to the pool. I pull my finger out, which sucks and pulls, and lick it to taste my own defilem...nt. That does not help - it is Brandon. Brandon was American, Californian to be exact, and built like the sort of Grecian hero one only sees in museums, usually missing an arm or leg or cock - yet he had it all, as if he had sprung from his pedastal, and greeted the mortals for a day in the dullness of modernity. He looks at me with a suspcious. Family dinner that was suggested as a solution to my bad sex life.***“Fuck,” I shouted as I jumped out of bed to the sound of the garbage truck rumbling in the distance down our subdivision cul de sac. “Why am I in bed?” I mumbled to myself as I stood in a daze in panties and a t-shirt, my typical home alone attire, and desperately looked around the room for bottoms to slip on. It was an ordinary Thursday. I had got the kids up and off to school. My husband was off to work and I had started. Seth was no stranger to death, he had killed his share of wild animals and butchered the family livestock. He had never killed a man before and he knew that he would have to. Blood lust was upon these men. The only way to stop them would be to kill them. He would not hesitate. He also knew he would not survive. He pushed the clinging green vegetation out of his way as silently as possible as he stepped toward the narrow trail, of bare dirt, where the deer and other animals had worn away the low. For several minutes I didn’t open it, as I paced around the room wondering if I had the strength to read it. With hindsight, this was stupid. They were in a top-notch Manhattan hotel, what image could the text contain that could possibly justify my fear and nerves? And maybe it wasn’t just fear, maybe I was savoring this just as I’d savored Sue’s text. Because of course, I knew that I would open Francis’ text in the end, just as an addict will always pick up a loaded syringe. I knew that I.
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