" She was my mother, and I would deny her nothing. If touching me would help her heal, I'd welcome it always. I felt a tiny bit guilty, because I had ...ied to her when she'd asked if I ever thought of her sexually. My mother was a sensual woman. My heart thumped as I thought she might no longer be off limits to me.I felt her shift, and a hand — it had to be her left one — caressed my ribcage, just below my breast. In little up and down movements, her fingers crept closer to my armpit, then. They could be planning anything. They could be intending to sit on my face and suffocate me, which had a bizarre sort of appeal. Or they could try to fuck me to death, each, in turn, demanding I rattle their bones until my back broke and finally my heart gave out. Again, not entirely unwelcome.Or they might simply grab me and slit my throat. Was that how a gang of girls would do it? Probably not. Poison, more likely. Hold me down and pour hydrogen peroxide or hair dye down my throat. Or maybe. More

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