When I was alone, though, I could treat myself the way I needed to be, sliding and digging at the surface, pressing and squeezing, trying to tickle myself.My fingertips returned to my nipples again and again, never gentle with them, roughly manipulating them, in stark contrast to the gentle caresses on my stomach. My breasts welcomed me back every time, loving the pinch, or the tug on the thoroughly attentive skin. The skin lower down my torso provided some kind of relief, like just the right amount of sugar with tart strawberries. I thought about that, too. About a long lost lover who ate fruit from my body, spread juice over my nipples, scraped rough fruit skin down between my breasts.I found myself unable to completely ignore the rest of my body, and my feet had begun to caress my legs, as and when they could reach, one toe sliding poignantly up the back of the opposite leg, sending sparks flying via my brain to my open, hot wet, inviting, desperate mound.The hands that had been. That woman must have nerves of iron not to bursting with curiosity about how Joe got the wounds.Joe was informed that the sun would be coming up about 6:00, so they could go back to sleep until then. Probably nothing would happen to the dead Indians before then, so they might as well wait until daylight to examine them. They went to bed, and Joe slept like a log, though on his belly. Joe didn't want to get any blood on the mattress.Just at daylight, there was a knock on his door. The knock changed to a pounding before Joe could fully wake up. "OK, OK, come in, please."Mistress Esther walked in and said, "Well, Master Joseph, you certainly are a slug-abed! Master John has been up for an hour and was wondering if you were sick again. He wants you to hurry down for breakfast before some chore he has in mind for you." All right, I'm coming." Mistress Esther flounced out of the room and closed the door forcefully, full of disgust at an exhibition of such laziness. It definitely was not.
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