If I ever change my name I might consider calling myself Mila. “Let’s do your front.”
Obediently, I rolled on to my back. She’s one of those women who in their mid forties still somehow manage to look as though they’re 20, and without the aid of plastic surgery or tons of professionally applied makeup. She went behind me, and then I felt a trickle of liquid down my spine. Still in pain, with both lower legs and feet encased in blue acrylic casts, I was taken home. “The way I remember it, I was the one who used to put her head on your lap.”
“So? I felt a clenching sensation in my lower belly, and knew that I was beginning to lubricate. “Now you know why I started wearing this instead of sleeping in the nude.”
“What was the dream about? At other times those same memories would be a cruel reminder of what I had no longer.
