All she could think of, though, was Barbie’s compact, curvy body lying naked on the bed, with white Bobby-milk welling out of her puffy, abused-looking pussy lips.She lifted a hand that felt like it weighed thirty pounds and let it rest on her abdomen. With an effort she pushed and her fingers slid through perfectly normal-feeling pubic hair. When her finger got to her clit she detoured it around the little bud. Let the poor thing rest a while. She had to lower her shoulder to get her fingers to her own pussy lips.They were slippery, but other than that, they felt completely normal. Wet. There was a lot of wet down there. There was no pain whatsoever, but she brought her hand up to make sure the wet wasn’t blood anyway. Milky white. Just like what Bobby left in Barbie.A whole series of emotions raced through her like competing horses at that race her daddy had watched on TV. What was it? The Kentucky something or other. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t a race. She had time to think. “I had a meeting with a man you might have heard of. Jerry Fitzgerald is an entertainment manager for a number of musicians, some of them classical, some of them contemporary. I told him about why I was back in California and why I wasn’t interest in long touring schedules. My first responsibility was to my children, and the second to my family ... and friends.”“So, how did he react to that?” I wondered.“Well, he wasn’t thrilled, but understood after what I told him about Italy, Roberto, and the outcome. He said he felt there were two directions I could go in. I could develop a recording career and then use the many local venues for live performances. They could be anything from nightclubs, to theatre type audiences, or even outdoor festivals. That would limit my travel and still keep my name in front of the audiences. I wouldn’t earn the kind of money from the live work that I was used to in Europe, but it would be a comfortable income. If the records sold as well as he thought they.
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