She shivers as his hand runs the soft sponge along her calves, icy cold water dripping behind her knee. ‘Ah, you will live after all’ he chuckles ...s he gently places her leg down. Moving to her side, he drops his hand into a bucket, squeezes the sponge once, then strokes it up her stomach…. He leans closer as the sponge squishes along between her breasts… over her chest. Once there, moving to stroke at her hot neck and throat. ‘Feeling a bit better my love?’. He lifts the sponge over her as. He cursed himself inwardly for his inability to speak to his fellows, other than to give orders or discuss tactics. He felt at home only among others of his kind: warriors. He was thirty-one years old and had never married; had never known a woman other than the drabs that followed the armies. He could count his friends on one hand. It was little to show for a life of service."I see that, for you, the glory's in the doing, not the telling." The woman's voice was low and well modulated, without. I pull away and walk further into the room. He goes to the desk where he has some liqueur he brought and poor me a drink. I sit on the bed and he brings me the drink and has one himself. I ask if he minds if I smoke and he says He'll No, it turns him on when women smoke. I pull a cig out and he lights it for me, touching my hand and looking so passionately into my eyes. He says he's been waiting to meet me for so long. I agree with him and kiss him using a lot of tongue. He lays me back on. Everything had the appearance of aged elegance and durability. The walls were covered with book shelves containing books in five different languages. Over the hearth was a large photograph of a teenage Laurel, a younger Professor Amington, and a woman who could have only been Laurel’s mother. When Professor Armington gave me the sealed envelope he said, “Laurel is interred in our family mausoleum in Rock Creek Cemetery. The Armington family used to be economically and socially prominent in.
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