Pretty Girl, Lovely Bottom But A Sadly...

Yet here I am,pencil in hand, and grains of sand falling from the pages to my lap.Except for Val, Dr. Federova, and the man at the helm of the motorboat,who spoke no English and didn't introduce himself, I still had had nohuman contact. Val and the doctor both check up on me now and again, butconversation is pretty much limited to how I'm feeling and checking myvitals. I think everyone feels awkward around me, not really knowing howto deal with me or what to say to me.I suppose it's only fair, I imagine I'd have a hard time talking tosomeone who'd been through a traumatic experience too. These men andwomen are scientists, not counselors. And the language barrier wouldjust make it so much easier to not find a reason to talk to me.So here I am, back with the only friend I've known in the last year, theonly one who's listened to every thought I've had: Katie's journal.It's strange to call it that, even though it's doubly correct. It usedto belong to Katie, before she died in the. Satisfied that everything was ready, I was left with two whole hours to pamper myself in readiness. I drew myself a bath and tried to relax in the warm scented bubbles. My mind was working overtime while my stomach maintained a constant hollow churning as I soaked in the bath. In the finish I had to abandon my bath, I couldn't stand the wibbly-wobbly sensations in my tummy any more.Nervous excitement was building within me. I stood in the bathroom staring at my trembling fingers, willing them to stop shaking. It made no difference. I took a long and indulgent drenching under the shower, washing and re-washing my hair, before applying conditioner.While the shower was more distracting than the bath, my hands had a habit of wandering across my seriously aroused body. Soaped fingers slipped easily into my womanly well, stoking the unquenchable furnace within as water pounded my quiver breasts. I closed my eyes, thighs trembling under the strain, feeling the heat rising as my fingers.
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