No bra just there in front of me in full view.firm and ripe juicey nipples.i tell her i better get the step ladders to do the curtain poles.so for the time being im back to work.ive drilled the holes for the screws.thinking now after seeing what was on offer i wouldnt mind drilling mrs fielding.so she comes and asks if i need anything.(if only she knew).i am stepping down the stepladders and she puts her hand on the inside of my thigh.she presses it and asks is that a piece of curtain pole i can feel.so i told her it was my manhood.she laughed and said no it cant be its too long and thick for that.ok its not i say.i really wanted to carry on working but the customer is always right.she says if it is your cock and it is that size shed like to see it.of course you would thats how it always is.so i said if you want to see it pull down my jeans.so she sat on the sofa and pulled the down.thats when i thought she was going to faint.so when i was younger at gym classes i was excused. He left. Fine he left. Said it was my fault. I agreed. But only to him. I can’t blame myself. There was more to it than that. So much more. But that’s the way it goes. He’s over and done with me and I sit here rotting. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust himself back into my life. Long enough for the wound to be torn farther to add bacteria to the contaminated flesh. I sit.
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