"Cully, look!"Momentarily lost in my reverie I found she'd lowered the top of her dress and her breasts were exposed."Cully's not a tit man. Cully's not a tit man. Cully's not a tit man." Sing song/Sing song. "You only married me for my rump. That's all you care about, isn't it? You lusted over it the moment we met and since. I caught you looking at it from day one."Then a final refrain: "Cully's not a tit man."She grabbed a hand off the steering wheel. "You can spare this, we're going what about 10 miles per hour? Christ already." She dug it in and set it right. She was accurate, it was sopping in there. Rich, thick, hairy, a mess. She moved it about. "THERE! Right there, boy. I'm going twice, that's 2 times for you Air Force boys, so, just stay in contact where your baby set the fucking thing and don't lift off it, ya fucker, you. Stay the course and I'll turn your ass inside out at the house."And one more time so I wouldn't forget & so I would remember: "I'll move---you stay still!. At nineteen, Erin Anderson was one of the shrinking number. She was a statuesque beauty who traveled in a cloud of admirers to which she gave equal thought, or no thought at all depending on your point of view. And, since she had no idea the power of her hidden talent, she didn't actually see what her mind's eye told her was there. So she tried to hide a slight stumble of hesitation when her eyes locked briefly onto Emory's across the yard.Having made the contact, no matter how brief, Emory was quite content to obscure himself, and the others, in a magic thickening of fog. A fog so subtle that Erin, if asked, couldn't say what had caused the stumble. Her suite-mate Megan, however, noticed the hesitation and put out a steadying hand. It never quite went all the way toward touching Erin."Erin, you all right?", Megan asked while shifting her book bag.Erin still glanced at the hedge. She settled her own backpack and then said, "Yeah, I just thought...", She slowly shook her head as if to.
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