. you bastard!"That's another thing. When you write fiction, your imagination runs continuously, sort of like a hard drive that doesn't have a "sleep" feature. And inanimate objects get personified in a way that normal people would report to their shrink.Of course writers don't go to shrinks. They write instead, and all that garbage inside them pours onto the page, instead of in one of the Doctor's ears and out the other as he wonders what his lovely wife is going to present him with at dinner that night.I suppose it's therapeutic in a way ... writing, I mean ... because you get to flesh out all those dark thoughts that everybody has at one time or another, but can't admit they have because then your drinking buddy would look at you and say things like "You want to do WHAT with your sister?!"Then it gets complicated when you try to brush over the error of admitting to your fantasy."Well, I don't actually HAVE a sister ... but if I DID have a sister, and she looked like Cindy, the. Hearing nothing but her own pulse, she caressed her inner thighs with her nails and shivered. The urge surfaced, with a tension that promised release and respite. Unable to resist, Laura parted her legs. A luxurious full-handed rub, up and down, encouraged the craving instead of satisfaction. Her lip quivered; her jaw dropped. Despite the heat, her nipples became hard and erect. She could resist, but why? A glance toward the door was fruitless—the heavy fog cloaked everything, including her. With abandon, she untucked the top of her towel, letting it fall to her thighs. Breasts bare, and hand cupping her quim, she drifted into relaxation and arousal.Head back, Laura slipped her middle finger between her folds and sighed. Her release valve pushed, life's strains vanished. Right then Laura knew she could not stop.Scooching forward on the bench, she spread her knees and slid her finger in deeper. In a bit, out a bit, her middle knuckle was momentarily satisfying, like the first bite of.
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