She came to my house at noon, I was still in my pyjamas working at my desk.Mary my maid came to seek me, “There’s some woman downstairs who reckon... she’s your whore.”“What?” I demanded.“Hilary something or other.” Mary suggested and the aforesaid Hilary burst upon us.“Father says he sold me to you as your plaything,” she insisted as she stormed into the room.I stared, she was as far from a whore as one could reasonably get in a female. I would swear she was fresh from forking the dung from the. But with that first simple scratching of the surface of the characters, I found something interesting. And that scratch turned into an itch. And the itch turned into a rash.Developing the story and the characters did two things for me. First of all, it fell into my rule of "Write the story that I want to read.", and second, it made an attempt at clearing up this awful embarrassment I had over all the big-boob emphasis. I mean come on, how shallow can I possibly get? Don't I know that every inch. More

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