She wanted to see the bulge in his pants. "Sir, I'm ready to clean the top shelves now. Could you hold the ladder for me? I'm afraid it might fall.". She was also afraid that he might not get up since his cock was so hard. "I'm kind of busy right now, can you wait a few minutes? I have to finish this letter." Shit, he thought, I can't let her see me this way. "Will you please go get me a cup of coffee" he asked. That would get her out of the room. "I should be done by the time you get back." Damn, she thought as she left the room. She was getting very horny thinking of him. While she was waiting for the water to boil, she lifted her dress and slid her hand down inside her panties. She was very wet. The feeling of the wet silk cooling on the top of her hand and the heat from her wet pussy felt very good. She slid a finger down across her clit and buried it in her cunt. She leaned back against the wall and lifted her leg to a chair to allow her finger to slide deeper into her. She. Then I had more hair, much less fat, many fewer wrinkles, and wanted to be a writer. One or two of the contributors actually did get published, one more than once. For me, that particular dream died with a lot of others. I got to read the poems as they came in, sitting in the airless, windowless room allotted to us in a 1930s, wannabe Gothic, PWA building in our public (but cheap) college. They were all written on paper, would you believe the whole entire college had only one computer, an IBM 7 series the size of a walk-in refrigerator. Most of the poems showed promise, most as firestarters for barbecue charcoal, but we had to print a few. Yes, I was an arrogant puppy in those days. Then there was one, it stopped me. I remember the beginning so well: As I lie with you I go to glory I go to glory When I lie with you And the white owl One ear cocked to the ceiling One liquid eye floating in the goblet Upward. I remember I shivered. I could feel the poet’s arousal, imagine her (I knew.
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