I remember once, when my grandmother died, we went ten miles and hour home from the funeral place. Fury, was my mothers undoing, and guilt my fathers....My father, the divine extrovert, became silent, his innermost thoughts collapsed in on himself and the voice of despair overtook him. His job left him to his solace (though his boss let me know when my father had returned that he was welcome to reapply), and his family departed after the funeral (save myself). So my father sat, a shell staring at. After that it was exercise and classes, classes and exercise.We took the elevator – I suppose it would be more accurately called a shuttle since it seemed to move in any and all directions - to a large room full of exercise equipment, some of it easily accommodating my body, some of it clearly designed for a different shape. Hex guided me toward something that looked like an elliptical runner combined with a nautilus machine that worked upper and lower body muscles at the same time. My brain. Powerful, erotic tales spurred on by the churning undercurrent of lust brought forth from our everyday msn ‘chats’. I looked forward to his words with excitement – and tonight as I lay alone in my bed my thoughts turned to ‘that story’, the one I had enjoyed the most.As I lay in the dark and recounted his words, as if on autopilot my hand travelled over the red silk of my skimpy night slip to my breast. My hardened nipple needed little encouragement from my fingers, my mind had begun the work. But we call him the Italian Stallion." Oh really? Why is that?" Because he is hung like a horse. Come on, Raph." And before Janet could reply Tracy dragged Clifford inside.Once they got inside Clifford managed to whisper to Tracy without anyone overhearing."Italian?" Well if you had spoken to her she would have recognised your voice, Clifford. Now come on, we have to get around the back to let Stacy and Willy in. And for god's sake, don't lose that brew."Clifford patted the flask that he had.
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