Wondering, Fearing, Doubting, Dreaming

Slim Pail Girl

Our heads share one thick pillow, your body pressed close to mine – a thin line of person in the middle of a bed an ocean across, together by choice and not just by circumstance. You want to be here. I can feel it in the way your arm drapes over me, gently holding me close with an easy possessiveness.

I am, at long last, ready to let myself be possessed.

I resisted for a long time, fought the part of me that was used to telling me I was better off alone. I was used to the solitude, to the loneliness that I tried to convince myself was good for me. Concentrate on yourself. Concentrate on your work. You’ve got no time for anyone else.

And even if you did, they’d just leave.

It was easy to believe it, easy to let the helplessness creep in – easier still to let it set up camp and make itself at home. Hope was the thing with feathers, long since flown away. One year. Two. Five. Ten, and beyond…

I had never realised quite how lonely I was until you arrived, with that easy charm. The smile that seemed to promise so much. The soft, gracious tilt to your voice when you asked me my name, how I was doing, how I knew the other people at dinner.

And then that first long night, buoyed up by wine and good times. A night I didn’t think I’d ever experience again.

It wasn’t as different as I remembered, although you were new and unfamiliar in all the best ways. Touching you was like rereading a favourite book for the first time in years: a new copy of an old story, the pages crisp and pure but everything right where I remembered it. Every kiss was pinprick of light, building up one by one in the darkness to the image of a galaxy that I didn’t quite understand and wasn’t ready to question.

You shift behind me, just slightly; your breathing skips, and for a second I feel the tight clutch of panic in my chest: This is it. This is where you leave me. And yet you don’t. Of course you don’t, but old habits die hard. You didn’t leave that first night – and when you did, the morning after, you came back. Time and time again, you return to me, always happy and always eager to make me yours again. Always with that same electrifying touch, always surprising me even when I know I shouldn’t be surprised.

I am learning to view you as a rock, a constant. I am learning that it is safe to put down my foundations on you, in you. I am slow, but you are steadfast and patient; I think you might want it as much as I do.

And yet I can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s all too good to be true, the ever-present creeping terror that it’s all just one wrong move away from tumbling down. One day, I’ll say the wrong thing. One day, I’ll be a little too argumentative, a little too docile, a little too distracted, a little too old, and you’ll realise there’s a bright blue ocean out there to sail without this anchor weighed down around your neck. The thought kills me slowly, a papercut every day, bleeding me slowly dry with worry – and still, no matter what you tell me and no matter what you do to put me at ease, I don’t know how to make it stop.

‘Hey,’ you whisper drowsily, and then again: ‘Hey… you awake?’

One day, I’ll say the wrong thing, and you’ll leave for good – so for tonight, I say nothing.

I feel you plant a soft kiss on my shoulder, a kiss I’m not meant to feel except through the haze of my sleep – and for tonight, that’s enough.

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Lick

A woman has her fingers in her mouth.

He holds up two fingers in front of my face, still glistening with my wetness, and smiles. ‘Clean them,’ he says, and I do.

He knows the effect it has on me, knows all too well the immediate reaction that burns within me whenever I’m allowed to taste myself for him. He knows just how excited I become at the thought of taking his fingers into my mouth after he’s fucked me with them – and not just his fingers, either; I grow weak at the taste of myself on his cock, travelling straight from my cunt to my mouth.

‘Clean them,’ he says, and I do. Every time.

It keeps me down, just for a moment longer. As the first flood of orgasmic bliss begins to subside, as my heartrate begins to slow and my breathing returns to normal, as I feel him climb off my quivering form and settle back into bed next to me, the taste puts me right back into that instant of perfect, gleeful submission. Feeling part of him probe my mouth, his fingers slick with my juices – watching me debase myself all for his approval – starts the ticking clock that pushes me towards Round Two. (Or Round Three, or Four, or…)

Clean them.

Taste yourself.

You beautiful, filthy little slut.

Because isn’t that what he means with those two little words? Isn’t that the subtext riding under the taste of my cunt?

Yes, of course. Because a good girl wouldn’t do that. A good girl wouldn’t find herself salivating at the thought of his fingers probing her, growing wetter and wetter in both mouth and pussy, unconsciously preparing herself to be fucked yet again wherever he might choose. No, a good girl would be demure and pleasing, eager – but not too eager. That would never do.

A good girl would know how to resist. It’s a lesson I’ve never learned… and so what would that make me? What could that make me?

I wonder…

He has told me often enough. He has growled it in my ear a thousand times as he fucks me, slides his length into me, shapes my cunt to his needs. He has made me admit it before he’ll give me an orgasm, before he allows me the release that he knows belongs to him. He has kept that word on my tongue for what feels like an eternity as I wait for his permission, as I wait for him to tell me it’s OK to give in.

To admit that I’m not a good girl, and that I never was.

That I am a slut, his slut, and nothing more or less than that.

‘Clean them,’ he says, but he knows he doesn’t need to ask.

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In the Wild

Woman with corset and black nails.

It was him, definitely; she would have bet the farm on that.

The last time she had seen him he had been shirtless, his torso coated in a thin sheen of sweat both from exertion and the oppressive heat of the club itself; here, he looked neat and respectable – almost bored, in fact – in a business suit that lost some of its composition since leaving the office. His jacket was folded over one arm, his tie was loose at his neck, his sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows.

He carried a basket filled with a few basic staples: a pint of milk, a half-load of bread, a couple of frozen meals-for-one. The last time, he had been holding a fierce-looking cane and the attention of the room.

She caught his eye, trying not to stare, but also eager to check her first instincts. Was it him? Could it be?

He looked back at her. Oh, it was him alright. Without a doubt.

She smiled in the manner of a casual acquaintance, just someone trying to get by with her weekly shop. He smiled back, then went back to deciding between two competing packages of ravioli, trying to figure out if today was a spinach and ricotta day, or if he was in more of a mind to push the boat out and go for the black-packeted prosciutto and goat’s cheese.

He doesn’t have the faintest clue who I am.

Then again, how could he? The theme of the party was Venetian Masquerade – or at least, Venetian Masquerade with a little twist of kink; the great Enrico Dandolo might have gone blind all over again had he seen the outfits (or lack thereof) they had chosen to go along with their masks. At the start of the evening, she had been dressed in a corset over delicate lace panties, but they hadn’t lasted; the corset was new, and a little too restrictive to be entirely fun, but the panties had been sacrificed to a greater goal. She had felt him shimmy them down her legs as he bent her over the leather bench, displaying her ass to everyone assembled. She had watched him take a deep sniff of them – to the playful laughter of the crowd – before wadding them up and stuffing them into his pocket, safe and sound. Her face had burned with embarrassment – but of course, the flush of blood to her cheeks was nothing compared to the feeling of his cane against her flesh.

She still bore the slim, streaked bruises across her buttocks, even four days later.

She wondered if he had kept the panties. She hoped he had. It would have been nice for him to have a souvenir to match her own – something that he would find a day or two after the fact, when the memory of the brief, anonymous connection they had had begun to fade like a dream in the morning. Something he could raise to his nose again in the quiet stillness of the night and use as a way to transport himself back to the club, back to the noise and the sweat and the bustle of it all.

Something to remember her by.

 She had wondered in the past what it would feel like to run into one of her partners outside of the club, out in the real world – whether it would be like seeing a tiger in the wild, as opposed to safely behind glass at the zoo. She had wondered if she’d get the same thrill from seeing one of them in a business suit rather than leather pants, or seeing one of her fellow subs walking around in a summer dress rather than being led by collar and leash into one of the club’s back rooms. Now it had happened, she wished it hadn’t. He wasn’t the tiger in the wild here. This wasn’t his natural environment. It was in the dark, sweaty embrace of the club that he seemed most at home, a predator stalking his prey. She had yielded to him in an instant there, with the trappings of their mutual desire all around them. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything like that here. If he reached across from his basket to take a handful of her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to him in a way that had been so hot, so fucking hot at the weekend, it would have been horrific, not sexy; if he had barked that same order that she could call him Sir, that she should thank him properly for the strokes of the cane he planted with expert precision across the meat of her ass, she might very well have laughed in his pretty little face.

Same man. Different world. It mattered, somehow.

Then again, had she not benefited from that too? There was a strange thrill to not being recognised. Less than half a week ago, he – anonymous he, nameless he; a perfect stranger in every sense – had had her strung up like a puppet for his amusement. She had watched him lose himself in her, giving himself over to her as she gave herself over to him. Outside of the club, would he have even paid her the slightest attention? She doubted it, somehow; not a man like him. A little too young, a little too handsome, a little too cool. She had sensed it even at the club, but that was a different world; the normal rules didn’t apply, the limitations of the Great Wide Out-There seemed petty and small. She was in her forties now, on an inevitable downhill slalom to the big Five-O, and she had accepted that. In the world, in the wild, she didn’t draw attention. She looked respectable. She looked responsible. She looked mature – and that was she looked like much of anything at all; a first glance was rare on the outside, and a second glance rarer still.

But behind the mask, she could bare herself. In the dark of the club, all eyes were on her. The sag, the wrinkles, the tiger-stripe stretchmarks that covered her thighs and belly (stomach, she chided herself; be kind to yourself, even if it isn’t strictly true)… none of it mattered. All that people cared about was her willingness to present herself freely, unashamed – even temporarily – about the impact of the years on her body. All they cared about were the moans as a finger or a strap-on or a cock slid inside her, or the whimpered moans as she debased herself happily for their entertainment.

Yes, it might not have been much – but it was hers.

And for a little while, for a few brief moments, he had been hers. It had been her body that had driven him to the edge, had made him positively insensible with pleasure as he had thrusted himself to an orgasm inside of her. Still got it, she thought. Maybe it was rarer now, but she could still perform when needed. Maybe she wouldn’t draw a stare in a supermarket aisle (Oh, for another swing at her twenties…), but what did that matter?

The bruises ached behind her, and she smiled as she passed him. He didn’t turn to see, but that was OK.

Perhaps the club was her natural habitat too.

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Heartbeats

Woman touches man's face.

There are twelve months in a year. Thirty days, give or take, in a month. Twenty-four hours in a day, sixty minutes in an hour, sixty seconds in a minute. The human heart beats a little faster than that; just a touch over eighty times every minute, if you’re in decent health and you don’t exert yourself too much. Eighty is a nice, round number. It’s around the average life expectancy of a human being, too. I’ve always found that a neat little coincidence. I couldn’t tell you why. It always just tickled me for some reason.

You get around thirty thousand days on earth, if you’re lucky. About seven hundred thousand hours. A little over three and a half billion heartbeats.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

My God, doesn’t that seem like a big number? Three and a half billion. Almost beyond imagining.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Nothing small can ever be divided up into billions. The scale of it just doesn’t make sense; the little things add up too quickly. It’s about as many bricks as there are in the Chrysler building. I know, because I looked it up one night when my failure to sleep became too much to bear. If each one of those heartbeats was a grain of sand, the sum total of an average human life would be more than fifteen tonnes. If each one was a single step, one placed after another, it would be enough to walk from the earth to the moon – seven times over. And what’s a brick, eh? What’s a step? What’s a grain of sand?

How are you ever supposed to pick one out of the many?

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

I first met him in August of 2012. I knew him for a little over five years. 1,969 days. Almost fifty thousand hours. Almost a quarter of a million heartbeats. Perhaps a little more, based on the fact that I could feel it racing in my chest whenever I saw him for the first time in a while; perhaps a little fewer, based on the way he made it skip a beat every time he kissed me.

Could I pick an individual heartbeat out of all of those? Oh, absolutely. I might even have been able to pick out a favourite, if it came down to it. The way I felt the first time he touched my hand, perhaps, when he curled his fingers around mine as we walked through the park near his apartment and I knew I was going to be spending the night. Or perhaps it came later: the rapid pitter-patter that followed the realisation that he wasn’t just goofing around and was actually proposing to me, in the kitchen of the tiny apartment we now shared, with the snow gently falling outside – that this man, this beautiful man, wanted to make me his.

We didn’t go away; we couldn’t afford to. We spent the whole week in our apartment – mostly in bed, let’s be honest – but he covered the window with a poster of the Eiffel Tower, because I’d always wanted to visit Paris and that was the best he could do. He smiled a goofball smile and promised me we’d get there eventually, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have a care in the world. I had never been more in love with him than I was at that moment. I didn’t even think it was possible to be more in love with him.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

And then, on the other side of the spectrum, there were the hated heartbeats too. The pang of concern as my phone buzzed one afternoon and I knew – I just knew – something was wrong. The tightness in my chest even as his sister tried not to worry me, trying to find the best way to tell me to drop everything and get to the hospital now without making me a nervous wreck. The way every heartbeat that followed seemed to ring in my ears as I raced out into the street to find a cab.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He was dead by the time I got there. Undiagnosed heart condition. Genetic disorder. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, they said – as though naming it after the fact made any difference. Could have happened to anyone. No rhyme or reason to it whatsoever. It might have blown out then, or fifty years in the future.

Bad luck, they told me. That was all it was. Just bad luck.

I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? All I could think about was the time we might have had together. How many heartbeats he’d been robbed of. How many nights I might have rested beside him after sex, or just cuddled with him on the sofa, my head on his chest – and beyond that, how often I had been so close to him, so unaware of what was to come. How many times I had been soothed to sleep by the sound of those heartbeats, convinced that nothing could possibly be wrong with the world as long as I had him – and yet it was there all along. The thing that would take him from me.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He was thirty-one.

Our daughter was seven months old.

She’s fine, by the way; I should tell you that right off the bat. As soon as I could, I arranged to have the doctors check her out, to see if she had the same abnormality that her dad did, and she came back clean. That was a good sign. As far as they could tell – although they’d need to keep an eye on her, just to be sure – there was no weird screwup lurking in her code, no dam waiting to burst. On balance, she got off lucky: his eyes, his hair, my heart. There’s a case of winning the genetic lottery if ever there was.

But still… I can’t help but wonder. Every time she rushes up to me and gives me a hug and I feel her little heart beating against mine, all I can think is, What if? What if the test was wrong, and she has what he had? What if there’s a little kill-switch lurking inside of her, and one day it’ll put me through all of that again? I don’t think I could bear it. I really don’t.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

I’m still a little younger now than he was when he died; not by much, and not for long, but still… just a little. I can expect to live for another fifty years. Perhaps even longer. Eighteen thousand days. Four hundred thousand hours. Two billion heartbeats that I was supposed to share with him – and what now? A noise without an echo. A tick without a tock. I try my best to carry on – for her, you know; I don’t know where I’d be without her – but it never seems to get any easier. The memory of it all never seems to fade away. He’s there, no matter what I do. No matter how hard remembering is, he’s there – and then, of course, he isn’t.

It’s worst of all when I’m lying in bed at night, in the dark, in the quiet, alone with my thoughts and that noise – that awful, terrible, repetitive noise, following me wherever I go, reminding me of what once was and what I’m missing. I hate it, and yet in a perverse sort of way I’m almost grateful.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

If it weren’t for those heartbeats, I’d swear there was nothing left inside me at all.

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A Dawning

Woman looks out over the city.

The remembrance comes in waves.

It starts with her eyes opening on a room unfamiliar even in the darkness: the walls, shrouded by night, feel a little further away than she’s used to; the noises coming through the open window are different, sounds of the city, not of her quiet suburban street; the sheets that have ridden down to rest just below the stubbled hairs of her cunt are thicker, more expensive than the ones at home. As she shifts, they glide smoothly across her legs: a rare luxury.

Sleeping naked. She never sleeps naked.

Why now? Why here?

It continues with a sound at her side; not quite a snore, but an exhalation so deep and sudden that it feels for a moment as though someone is trying to get her attention. She freezes, waits to see if he stirs further, but no. He rests there, the man from the night before – the current night, even; dawn is only just starting to creep through the window off to her right, through the blinds closed in far too much of a hurry in their eagerness. She remembers him, although it takes her a minute; the fog of sleep hasn’t quite lifted, and in the darkness it’s hard to bring his face to mind.

And last but not least, there is the ache: a different sort of ache than she left the house with last night, but an ache nonetheless. She winces as she sits up in bed, feeling the fresh tenderness of her cunt with every movement. How long had it been since she was fucked like that? How long since she was fucked at all?

Too long. Far, far too long.

That had been the plan, of course – not hers, but that of her friends from out of town. Go on, they said. Live a little. Let your hair down. She had gone along with it, more out of politeness than anything else. A few drinks and an early taxi back home. No harm done. They had teased her gently for sitting on the sidelines as they danced and chatted, flirting with every man who caught their eye, always the centre of attention.

But not her. Not her style – and if it had been once (and it must have been once, she was sure of it), she was long since out of practice. It didn’t seem to have hurt.

They left. She stayed. The last time she had seen them, they had been winking at her from across the bar – lewdly, knowingly – as she urged them over his shoulder to leave the two of them alone. He kissed her shortly afterwards. She found that she enjoyed it.

And that was that.

She stands, stretches. The room is lighter now, or her eyes have adjusted, and she can make out the shape of him. The sheets are coiled down around at his feet, manoeuvred off in sleep to expose himself to as much of the summer air as possible, cooling him down after his early-morning exertion. Uncovered, he stretches out in the bed like the silhouette of a marble Adonis; his cock is half-hard, long and thick, heavy against his thigh. She wonders idly if there are still traces of her lipstick at the base, and smiles. She hopes so. It’s only fair he have something to remember her by.

She shifts uncomfortably, regretting her sudden urge to be upright. His cock was bigger than she was used to, the fuck rougher and more raw. He fucked like it was hunt: wild and animalistic, with survival on the line. She had found herself swept along by his intensity, by his need for her. The wine had helped, but there was more to it than that. There was a charm about him, a certain way that he had of putting her at ease. (The wine had helped with that too.) He had told her she was beautiful, and she had believed him. When he asked her up to his room, he had looked so earnest and sincere that the desire in his eyes had seemed complimentary rather than predatory.

Well, he had caught her, well and truly. Her swollen lips and the continued throbbing in her abdomen stand as a testament to that.

She heads over to the window and tilts the blinds to one side slightly, suddenly profoundly aware of her nakedness. The city below her is asleep, the lights blinking in the darkness but the roads empty. She must be, what, ten storeys up? Fifteen? It’s hard to judge. One-night stands in expensive hotels aren’t something she’s used to. Perhaps she has been missing out.

She takes a seat by the immense glass panel and looks out over the view of the city. A room like this must have cost a fortune – or had it? She thinks for a second, willing herself to remember through the haze of wine and lust. Had he mentioned something about that? A business trip? Out of town? Expenses? It sounded familiar, but only in the fleeting recollection way that an old Facebook acquaintance might – someone once known, and barely missed. A lot of the last night feels like that. She remembers parts, of course.

And in the bathroom, beforehand – staring at herself in the mirror, asking herself if she was really going to do this?

Why?

Why the hesitation? Drunkenness? No – well, a little – but more than that. Something nagging at her. Something she can’t quite place.

Surely not a lack of attraction; he is, even sprawled out in sleep, one of the most beautiful men she has ever seen in her life. She remembers the surprise that he seemed interested in her, the way it had race onward through to their first kiss, the stripping off of clothes and…

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair, a raw flare lighting up between her legs. It will be a long time before she can forget that. Not that she minds, of course; if anything, the reminder is welcome. So daring. So unlike her.

Except maybe not.

Maybe this is who she is now. Maybe this is what she is now: the kind of girl who will follow a man up to his hotel room, drop to her knees in front of him, bend over on rented sheets that he can split her wetness with a cock larger than any she has any she has seen before.

A slu…

She stops herself, then stops her stopping. Why should she? What’s so wrong with a little sluttishness once in a while? What’s so wrong with giving in to your base desires, enjoying the feeling of fullness and liberation as an almost-perfect almost-stranger takes you, fucks you, uses you? What could be so wrong with that?

Yes, a slut – and what of it? She smiles to herself, seeing herself in the glass, superimposed over the city. It’s a brand new day. It’s a brand new her. The world, such as it is, looks different new. Richer. Deeper. If she’d only known, she might have done this years ago.

Maybe. Except for that nagging doubt.

He shifts in his sleep, and she sees it. She wishes she hadn’t, wishes she could take it back and retain the memory just for a moment longer, but it’s there when she turns to him: visible, garish, incontrovertible.

The flash of gold on the ring finger of his left hand reflects the first streaks of light through the blinds.

Oh, she thinks. That’s why.

Just in town for one night.

Are you really going to do this?

But it was so easy. Being with him was so fucking easy. That charm. Those eyes. The attention he offered her, after so very, very long… The fucking had just been the icing on the cake; the ache in her cunt a hangover for a night she hadn’t regretted, not at all, even though she knew he should.

Are you really going to do this?

Well, the question is answered. She chooses not to think of what that might mean.

She dresses hurriedly, silently, afraid to wake him until she can close the door gently behind her, feeling the one-way lock click irrevocably closed on an evening she barely remembers.

And that is that.

She beats the dawn down to the street, and has hailed a taxi before he has even had time to forget her name.

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The Balcony

Couple embracing.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, his lips close to her ear. ‘Eyes forward.’

She hadn’t heard him come in, hadn’t heard the swipe of the hotel keycard she had left for him at the lobby or the click of the door as it latched closed behind him. She hadn’t heard his soft footsteps on the hardwood as his approached her, predator stalking prey. She hadn’t been aware of his presence until he slipped his hands around her, his fingers entwining with hers, holding her grip against the steel balcony railing. She began to turn quickly – in surprise at the interruption, in need for home – but he stopped her with just a touch.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. ‘Eyes forward.’

She stared out over the city. The sea of lights had been mesmerising just moments earlier, but now all she wanted was to turn her back to them, to trade the gleam of Paris at night for the kiss of her lover.

Six months. Too long.

Six minutes. Too long.

He tightened his grip, holding her hands in place. You’re here now, his touch seemed to say. Back with me, where you belong. And this time, you’re not going anywhere.

She smiled at that. As if there was anywhere she’d rather be.

She felt the scratch of his stubble at the back of her neck, just below her hairline, just above the fabric of the dress he had asked her to wear for him on their first meeting in what felt like forever. It was his favourite dress; she knew that well enough. She couldn’t count the number of times she had caught him staring at her lasciviously from across the room when she wore it, nor the times he had taken her back home afterwards, away from prying eyes in cities all over the globe. The dress had been left on countless hotel room floors, tossed over chairs, left scrunched up and neglected even as she was stretched out on the bed next to it.

Next to him.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, planting butterfly kisses at the nape of her neck. ‘Eyes forward.’

She felt him stand tall behind her, pressing her body against the balcony railing – a brief moment of panic as she imagined tumbling forward and down, down, down to the street below, losing herself in freefall as she did every time she felt his touch… but then the safety of knowing that he was there with her, that no harm could come to her. His grip on her was absolute. She was safe.

He loosed his fingers from hers, tracing a path gently up her bare arms. She shivered, despite the summer evening; his fingertips were warm, but the faint hairs on her arms rose up in a frisson of need, calling for him. They ran to her shoulders and he pulled her gently backwards, kissing that sacred dimple at her neck. She wondered if he could smell the perfume she had picked out – the light jasmine scent she had been wearing the first time they had made love, when he kissed her in that exact spot and she felt her world catch fire.

‘Shh,’ he whispered, feeling her tense up beneath his touch. ‘Eyes forward.’

She let her eyes fall closed and smiled in the darkness. She could hear the city beneath her, busy even in the small hours of the morning; the steady rumble of traffic was dwarfed by the sound of his breath quickening next to her. She knew that sound: the ragged desperation that made it clear that she wasn’t alone in her desire.

She turned to face him, eyes still pressed firmly shut, and this time he made no move to stop her. She felt his hand on her neck, drawing her near; the stubble of his cheek against the smoothness of her own – and the slow exhalation of six months’ wait finally, finally at a close.

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