coat and hat, she sat to retrieve the last cigarette filed in the pack. By the time she pulled in the first deep wholechestful of smoke, they quit; both of her parents. Now she could draw a bath. Finish the smoke. Undress to the flesh. Melt into the water. Add more burning hot. Float. Drift on the Sea of Dumb. Wave of sensations. Currents of relief. Spasms. Deep. Hard. Needed. Now languid. Dogs fucking. Double-ended dildoes... Leather, hair, smells, Kraft-Ebbing things. Total faint from the world.
It was at least an hour later, Mary was able to slip undetected into her room where she found her niece, Gilda, who shared it with her.
--Aunt Mary, I've had it!
--Shh! Shh! Girl in the bluestorm funk. Let me do first. Stowing things, replacing the coat with a sleeping gown, taking to a mirror to transform cold cream into a mask, watching the girl all the while pacing in her nightie, arms folded, bare feet padding, padding, padding. At seventeen with as healthy a pair of tits as anyone in the world would want. Black hair, long, thick, framing a too thin face, that held a knifedge nose, firestorming eyes, fishmouth lips. Sex. Sexy. Sexual. Sexuality. Fucklover
--Same story? Quietvoice a prophylactic against reignition from without.
--Aunt Mary, I don't know about you, all I know about is me, and I can't take any more of what Uncle Rocco and Aunt Lily are putting me through. Like I'm some sort of wild beast that needs to be chained down. I'm a human being! I need friends. To do things. They hold me like this! The clenched fist turning fingers white from the directed anger. Come on!
The two-three months she was there was hard on Gina, a reversal of the freedom she had living alone with her mother until she died. Home then was spelled motel, a safeparking space for things and stuff and such. The dreaded illness: ennui; newdoings the only antibiotic.
--How do I stand it? I'm used to it, I suppose. They need me. I've never known anything different. You don't miss what you don't know. You just suppose and wonder about it.
--Aunt Mary? Don't you need it?
Go to sleep, you little shit. Who do you think you are to rub my nose in my own terrified swaddling sheet? --You'll graduate next year. You'll be eighteen. You can then do as you please. In the meantime, you enjoy the comfort, safety and protection of this home...such as it is. Just a little gentle hypocrisy to loosen the manacles a bit for her, perhaps.
--Fuck that crap!
--I don't like the language, but I still say good for you!
--By what right is this done?
--No right. It's reaction. Not right. You might understand, tolerate the duress if you knew. Or would you? What difference would it make to you, Gilda, my springwound niece, if you knew why these two people do as they do? Not much, I think. Surprised you would be to learn your uncle is a cuckold. Oh! Yes! Fucking someone else, she was. Like a bitch in heat on the street. Yet, love we call it. And he found out. That was after his accident, not before. I wonder if she did before? I wonder? Who could blame her after he was chairbound, a healthy woman and all, and he a ruttable incapacitant. Maybe. Except for the late night attenuated transmissions intercepted through plaster and wallpaper by her sensitive ears. Guttural commands. Gustatory guttling. Finally, the gaggings. Not so often, of late. Then, there was something he did to her, she couldn't tell, to empty her well of desire, to damp the spark before the fire, and she wore dark circles under her eyes. A connection, perhaps, to her weekly rendezvous timed by him to the millisecond? If she only dared follow her, just once. No matter that. No matter anything, really, Gilda. Just don't become another me! Go to sleep. Life begins tomorrow! Go to sleep yourself, Mary Dolorosso, your dreams at this time of your life sadly handled reruns. And how impossible you make my now world, Gilda, in the same bed, on the same sheet, under the same covers. How magnified I feel the gentle
It was at least an hour later, Mary was able to slip undetected into her room where she found her niece, Gilda, who shared it with her.
--Aunt Mary, I've had it!
--Shh! Shh! Girl in the bluestorm funk. Let me do first. Stowing things, replacing the coat with a sleeping gown, taking to a mirror to transform cold cream into a mask, watching the girl all the while pacing in her nightie, arms folded, bare feet padding, padding, padding. At seventeen with as healthy a pair of tits as anyone in the world would want. Black hair, long, thick, framing a too thin face, that held a knifedge nose, firestorming eyes, fishmouth lips. Sex. Sexy. Sexual. Sexuality. Fucklover
--Same story? Quietvoice a prophylactic against reignition from without.
--Aunt Mary, I don't know about you, all I know about is me, and I can't take any more of what Uncle Rocco and Aunt Lily are putting me through. Like I'm some sort of wild beast that needs to be chained down. I'm a human being! I need friends. To do things. They hold me like this! The clenched fist turning fingers white from the directed anger. Come on!
The two-three months she was there was hard on Gina, a reversal of the freedom she had living alone with her mother until she died. Home then was spelled motel, a safeparking space for things and stuff and such. The dreaded illness: ennui; newdoings the only antibiotic.
--How do I stand it? I'm used to it, I suppose. They need me. I've never known anything different. You don't miss what you don't know. You just suppose and wonder about it.
--Aunt Mary? Don't you need it?
Go to sleep, you little shit. Who do you think you are to rub my nose in my own terrified swaddling sheet? --You'll graduate next year. You'll be eighteen. You can then do as you please. In the meantime, you enjoy the comfort, safety and protection of this home...such as it is. Just a little gentle hypocrisy to loosen the manacles a bit for her, perhaps.
--Fuck that crap!
--I don't like the language, but I still say good for you!
--By what right is this done?
--No right. It's reaction. Not right. You might understand, tolerate the duress if you knew. Or would you? What difference would it make to you, Gilda, my springwound niece, if you knew why these two people do as they do? Not much, I think. Surprised you would be to learn your uncle is a cuckold. Oh! Yes! Fucking someone else, she was. Like a bitch in heat on the street. Yet, love we call it. And he found out. That was after his accident, not before. I wonder if she did before? I wonder? Who could blame her after he was chairbound, a healthy woman and all, and he a ruttable incapacitant. Maybe. Except for the late night attenuated transmissions intercepted through plaster and wallpaper by her sensitive ears. Guttural commands. Gustatory guttling. Finally, the gaggings. Not so often, of late. Then, there was something he did to her, she couldn't tell, to empty her well of desire, to damp the spark before the fire, and she wore dark circles under her eyes. A connection, perhaps, to her weekly rendezvous timed by him to the millisecond? If she only dared follow her, just once. No matter that. No matter anything, really, Gilda. Just don't become another me! Go to sleep. Life begins tomorrow! Go to sleep yourself, Mary Dolorosso, your dreams at this time of your life sadly handled reruns. And how impossible you make my now world, Gilda, in the same bed, on the same sheet, under the same covers. How magnified I feel the gentle
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