Just think about the implications for her — for all of us — of what you're saying." I have thought about it," she insisted, "and it's a rotten sit...ation. It's so unfair. I've got nothing against Wendy — I like her a lot — but it's her or me."I needed to stop this before it went any further. "Then it's her," I said firmly.I expected anger or tears, but instead her mood seemed to soften. "Puir darling James," she said feelingly, her Scottish accent asserting itself, "I knew you'd say that. You're. I had only been after pleasure. I was a horndog that needed to fuck, and I hadn't cared about the women I molested.But they cared about me. They worshiped me. They were willing to die with me. It touched my heart. I stared out at all of them assembled in the basement. How had I stirred such loyalty in them? Was it my wish? Did they crave the pleasure of my touch this much? Or was it genuine?I think it was genuine. I could see it in their eyes. I had never loved anyone before. I had always just. He is glaring up toward me, his mouth a rictus of effort to control his own cumming. I glance toward his cock, straining toward his navel, full and throbbing and oozing viscous juices. One leg is balanced on my shoulder, the other hooked behind my ass, waiting to pull me into himself. I reach for his foot on my shoulder and I feel the bristling hair, luxurious to his Achilles tendon. My eyes focus on that furry ankle and a spark ignites in my bowels and shoots into my balls. As I take that. That’s when he got mad at me. He called me a Negro slut, an ape woman and all kinds of slurs. It took several prison guards to haul him away from the visitation room. Even though we were separated by bulletproof glass, I felt frightened of him. Who knew this man I once loved had such hatred in him? After Timothy, I focused on school and work, and didn’t feel like giving any man, Black or White, the time of day. Until I met Jean-Francois Heureux. A tall, good-looking young Black woman originally.
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