"He wants (I purposely said "wants" and not "wanted") to suck those beautiful breasts and kiss down your body."She jerked. It was an involuntary response. "Oh," she said again. She looked down at her hands. She was breathing deeply."He wants to see your hand, Bridget, as you hold him in it." I wasn't ready to tell her yet that I wanted, and yes it was about me as I told her about Lars, to see her mouth on my dick. Not yet. I'd get there, but not yet. She did seem to be getting into the dirty talk, though, so I pushed on."Bridget, he dreams of getting you undressed, of seeing the passion on your face when you know what's going to happen, that it's inevitable. That it's destined. That there's nothing you can do about it, but let it happen because it's what you want, too."She said nothing. I didn't know where to go with this. I waited her out. People hate a silence in the conversation and will always say something to fill it, and I knew her next words would be telling."What if he's. I groaned and dropped my forehead onto her shoulder. "No, we're almost there!" she protested before pushing me upright. When she let go of me, I flopped back down onto her.We stepped off the bus just as the sun began to rise, two blocks from Roundworm Records. Roundworm Records was our favorite record store, partly due to its choice location, equidistant from the nearest bus stop and the finest crack west of the East Side, and partly due to its selective inventory-you could be sure you would never have to wade through any shitty popular releases before getting to wade through all of the shitty indie releases. I stumbled after Vivian toward the barred-up doors of Roundworm, and formed a line which at its peak would consist of me, Vivian, and a guy whose knees were engulfed in an invisible inferno.Two hours later, the owner-a thirty-something ex-punk from New York-casually strolled up and unlocked the gate. "Morning," he said to me with a nod. I raised my hand in acknowledgement. "Hey,.
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