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You are smiling slightly waiting for me to acknowledge you. It takes several seconds for me to process what I am seeing and then I look at you, I smile and nod. Your smile widens and you say, "Give me 25 minutes!" and you are gone. 25 minutes, 1500 seconds, I busy myself cleaning the kitchen; I wander around picking up random items, moving them around. I look at the clock again. I am trying to be calm and patient, trying to suppress the passion mounting inside me. I know what you are doing upstairs, I have watched you prepare before, watched you prepare to taken. This, however, is a slightly different scenario, a different fantasy. 25 minutes, almost half an hour has passed, only 35 seconds remaining. I smile as I see the stairway light turn off. I know you are ready. I wait a bit longer, stretching the 25 minutes into 30, waiting as long as I can, wanting you to wonder, listening for my footsteps, your arousal increasing with each second I remain downstairs. I can't hold. There had to be something reborn in her out of the ages, some ancient power of domination which would awaken in me the ancestral response to her call.After lunch my barrack-hut buddy Rob collected me in his car for our return from leave. Curfew was not until ten and so we had plenty of time for tea and scones in Worthingthorpe, and a visit to the local lighthouse.The Worthingthorpe lighthouse stood on a high cliff above marshes. The sea never came there now, for big dykes had been erected to keep it out. The three former lighthouse keepers inhabited the cottages alongside it at a peppercorn rent and eked out an existence on their pensions and money gifts from tourists.It was a pleasant sunny afternoon and we lingered. When I asked our guide if we might see the interior of his cottage he was quite amenable. It was a charming and neat little place with gilt-framed oleographs of ships in storms with inky-black clouds.A portrait which interested me more stood above the mantlepiece and.
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