‘No, never. But it’s something I want to do,’ he confessed. She nodded, pretending understanding. ‘Does it have to be another man’s cum?’ ...he had asked. ‘I don’t know. Why?’ Her answer wasn’t verbal, but the point was quickly understood. She arched up her hips pulled up her skirt, revealing the bright red cotton panties she was fond of wearing. Wasting no time she hooked her thumbs in the waistband and stripped off the flimsy bit of fabric, showing him her black bush that grew practically wild. They hung, clumsy, in the air, far enough away that he couldn’t grasp their useless tail and drag them back to his mouth.She did not shift her gaze from the book as she moved away. Strands of dirty blonde hair had escaped her hat, dropping like snakes either side of her face.Still she read. Her tongue, on leave from her mind, sauntered around her lips. But eventually: “Like isn’t the word. I’d marry Faulkner. He makes me dizzy.”“He has that effect on me too.” This meant as a joke. He’d never. More

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