Each had a story of the last world war, holding memories of fallen comrades and friends; Small and large victories; amusing anecdotes and tales to ent...ral young children, or bore the elder, young men. Not all of the war had been about blood and guts, mud, hard rations or killing the Germans and the Japanese. Some of it had lighter moments, but not much.Every year he stood apart away from the massed crowds and watched. He watched alone, and then left when it was done. Back to his little flat in. She did not resist.He’d excited her, he’d given her the orgasm she so desperately needed and so many more, all the while playing her body like master might play a finely tuned instrument.But he was still Wormtongue, still her enemy, and couldn’t be allowed to have all that he wanted, nor to have anything at all on his own twisted terms. She’d permitted herself certain degradations, she’d accepted the consuming nature of her inexorable lusts, and she might tease him up to and then beyond his. More

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