M 2

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We'll give you a lift home, ducks.'I looked at the big throbbing machines and the quaked slightly.'No, that's OK, I can walk from here.''Don't worry, love. You'll be home before you know it.'In seconds I was hoisted behind Ronald, wearing a crash helmet, whichhad seen better days, smelling slightly of stale sweat and somethingelse not very nice.I found myself clinging on to dear life as we roared down the road. Myskirt was up around my face and my delicate regions were getting thefull force of a 60mph gale. I was glad that Mick and Dave were notaround to nick me for indecent exposure. Now that would have been fun!True to there word, I was outside my place in no time.Ronald lifted me bodily off the bike.'There you go, luv, nice and safe. Now remember, a nice girl like youshouldn't be out alone.''That's right, Ronald, you tell er.''Um, I'll remember, thanks for the lift boys.'I handed the helmet back to Ronald who attached it to his bike.The two bikers roared off and as they went, I. Hair, straight and blondeAs poured honey,Framing the beautyOf her face.Her sparkling eyesOverflowingAnd effervescentAs golden wine.It is her innocence no lessThan her lovelinessThat makes meHard with desire,With the need to becomeOne with her,Inside her.2In profile, in the limelight,She stands against a blue, mottled background,Wearing a blue jacket with a satin collarSlid down over her biceps to hangFrom her forearms, down her arched back,Head back, face horizontal, swirling hair,Her right breast a slope to rotundity,Nipple pointing straight ahead,The belly a firm slope that glides downTo the firm, alabaster thigh.The eye plunges past knee, along calf,To the pompoms on the toesOf her high heels,EndingIn a blossom of Amarillo fire.3Right-angle girl:Bellhop in light lavender cap;Elbow-length, matching glovesAnd trousers, skin tight, descendingInto high-heeled bootsIn the same light lavender materialSomething like paint.The only other colors are her hair,Blonde, and the peach flesh of.
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As a young girl, I was often harsh and insulting to that kind and gentle man, and I see now that he loved Mother dearly, and greatly admired the way she served as his hostess and consort throughout the social season, though he could not wed her. To me, however, the shame of Mother's taking his bed, and everyone knowing it, to support us was all that mattered. I confess I thought her no better than a Wh-r-.I was enlightened a bit when, upon the Lord's death, Mother married the mill-owner Skizzleby, a low and mulish man, but one whose wealth outweighed his complete lack of other charms. Now Mother had respectability-- but not love, nor was there any love for me. In short order I was shipped off to the Indies, in the company of Aunt Agatha and Rev'd Pinchwork, God rest their souls.So where was I? Ah yes, Dear Diarie, standing naked with my arms tied above me on the main deck, blindfolded, and sorely missing the nameless tongues which had, moments before, been licking their way toward my.

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