Ouroboros: Blood for Ink

by North Roberts
Have you ever wanted something so badly, that you were willing to kill for it? I’m not just talking about survival. Anyone will kill if it means saving their own life or the life of a family member. Trust me; as a husband and father of two, I know the capacity to take a life for those that you love. What I’m talking about is killing for that one unique thing, that special something that nobody else has, the thing that makes you feel… complete. I would… and have. You see, in my home, there is a very special collection. It’s a collection unlike any other, one to be proud of. Tattoos. “Why?” you ask. Because it’s more than just art. Each tattoo holds a special significance to its wearer. Whether for cosmetic, sentimental, or religious reasons, a tattoo represents an idea so powerful that someone was compelled to permanently graft it to their body. It’s a piece of their soul displayed to the outside world. Unfortunately, most people aren’t willing to part with an “aspect of their soul,” hence the killing. My drive comes from so much more than a desire to add to a collection. As cliché as it sounds, I like the thrill of the hunt… spotting a particular tattoo, gaining the trust of the one wearing it so I can get a closer look at it. For the latter reason, I find it best to seduce my victim, to bed the unlucky man or woman wearing the artistry that I intend to claim. The sex is another reason I do what I do, doing things with them that I’d never ask of my wife. She is, after all, the mother of my children. Over the past ten years, I’ve collected hundreds. I used to tan the pieces to preserve them, until I found out about plastination. Not needing the sort of large facility that medical researchers use to mummify bodies, I built a small plastination setup in the basement, one that’s easily hidden. The biggest problem with tanning is the discoloration, darkening the skin, fading the tattoo, and limiting my victims to Caucasians. Plastination opened the scope of my victims to people of all colors. Blacks, Asians, Indians, everyone was now a viable target for equal opportunity homicide. Furthermore, tanning is a lengthy process, one that can take days or even weeks. Plastination preserves the tissue as is and can be done in a very short period of time. The med schools love it. The layman’s familiarity with plastination comes principally from those museum and art gallery exhibits where some artsy egghead poses bodies that have been mummified by the process into elaborate, lifelike, or sometimes physically improbable postures. I heard about it on the news and immediately did some homework on the process. Never had the stomach to go to one of those exhibits, though. It just seems too fucked-up to me.

Common images are displayed together. There’s one display for cartoon characters, another for mermaids, and yet another for my favorite image of all… the Ouroboros. The concept has always fascinated me, the serpent swallowing its own tail, the coiled dragon. It symbolizes the human psyche, the cyclical infinite. It is that which Plato described as the perfect animal, the first living thing in the universe. In many ways, Plato was right, the Ouroboros is the perfect animal… the perfect symbol. Every once in a rare while, things line up perfectly. The wife was out of town, gone for the whole weekend to the west coast for some sort of convention, or conference or something. Unfortunately, we haven’t had much luck finding a new babysitter after the previous one’s “disappearance.” However, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem convincing the in-laws to spend the weekend with their grandkids. As it is, Karen’s folks are always complaining about how they “never get to see their grandbabies.” But before I drop the kids off and go hunting, I had to pack up a few necessaries for the night ahead: hobby knife, fillet knife, king-size comforter, a full vial of Ketamine, and a standardbevel hypodermic needle on the off chance that I couldn’t find a way to get my victim to take the drug orally. I’ve never had to claim my prize while I was in the field, but just in case it became warranted, I wanted to be prepared. If had learned anything from my stint in the Scouts, I learned that it’s always best to “be prepared.” The folks were all too happy to take the kids. It was still early in the evening, so when Karen’s mom invited me to stay for dinner, I couldn’t say no. She always did make the best meatloaf. After dinner and an irresistible second slice of homemade rhubarb pie, I gave each of the kids a kiss goodbye and thanked the folks, in spite of their insistence that they should be thanking me. With that, I drove off to the ideal hunting ground, the village surrounding the university. For several reasons, college students make the perfect targets… especially frosh. Freshmen are new to an unsheltered existence and, traditionally, naïve. They’ve just gotten their first taste of freedom after four years of convincing their parents that they were ready for it. News Flash, Mom and Dad… they weren’t. You know what they say about mice when the cat’s away. The first thing they do is emblazon themselves with an emblem of their newfound liberation… a tattoo. Then, they’ll spend their first year in college taking candy from strangers, having deviant sex, and drinking illegally obtained liquor. The recently emancipated eighteen-year-old will go to great lengths to get into a bar, but usually take the path of least resistance by latching onto anyone over the legal drinking age. Coffeehouse rats will be looking for alternative sex with a pseudointellectual. Club kids want pills or weed, what police call “recreational drugs” or “vehicle drugs” as opposed to “hard drugs.” They all have one thing in common. They all seek that stranger with candy. That’s where I come in. Friday nights in the surrounding villages explode with activity. The club scene, the bars and the coffeehouses become mingling grounds for suburbanites and students alike. They all let their guard down to let fun in, but mostly, they just let their guard down. As duck hunters have a duck blind, co-ed-hunters have the local fast food joint, the

first stop that a college student makes before self-debilitation, the best place to observe the prey in its natural environment. I ordered a “Number Three” and sat in the far corner booth as it provided me an ideal vantage point. I opened my notebook and busied myself with busying myself. The appearance of a single male in his early thirties peoplewatching in a burger joint can be unsettling, and is likely to creep people out. The appearance of a single male in his early thirties poring over paperwork in a burger joint seems practical. Still full from a home-cooked dinner, I marginally nibbled at the burger while scratching a list of insignificant numbers next to a list of fictional people. My “duck blind” built, I sat back and began observing. I needed to decide what I was fishing for before I baited the hook. Not to confuse the analogy by switching from duck hunting to fishing, but it applies. Either way, it’s just a metaphor. I began to focus out everything but the tattoos and the people wearing them. Early twenty-something redhead with a cannabis leaf on her arm, Dime a dozen… Marine on leave, planning to get free drinks with his uniform… Bulldog? US Flag? Already have one of each, and I’m not about to waste the night… Busty foreign blonde with a symmetrical, chevron-shaped, tailbone tattoo… The tattoo is too ambiguous, and it’s covering some kind of skin imperfection… Bottle-dyed milf with a dragon on her ankle… Joint tattoos look good on a living joint, but lose their shape when flattened… Emo-boy, late teens, pentacle on the back of his neck… Holy shit! How, in ten years, could I not have a pentacle? Purple tank-top, skinny-leg jeans, university-colored hoodie… Gay? Absolutely. Picking up guys doesn’t necessarily require a different strategy. But it does require different bait. Actually, it requires a completely different tackle-box. Fortunately, preparedness is one of my finer virtues. I took off my button-down, revealing the whitecotton undershirt, and tied the sleeves of the button-down around my waist. I casually slipped off my wedding ring and tucked it into my trouser pocket. I kept my eyes upon him, waiting for him to look in my direction. I’d be ready with a coy, bashful smile and an almost embarrassed reaction as if to say, “Oops. You found me out.” I would, that is, if it weren’t for the denim-jacketed, barely-legal, brunette skank that blocked his view of me as he began to turn. She was wearing hip-huggers, a mid-riff, and… an Ouroboros tattoo! It was perfect. Three-and-a-half inches in diameter, intricately designed with an alternating black-and-red diamond pattern, and ringing her perfect navel.

She walked up to one of her friends and said, “Are you done eating yet? Let’s go! I’m gonna get so wasted.” I drew her attention to me with two words, “Nice ink.” Her friend gave me a shitty look. The brunette smiled. “Thanks! You mean my snake tattoo?” she asked as she leaned back to trace it with her freshly dressed fingernail. “Yeah,” I replied, “The… uh… snake.” The dumb bitch wasn’t even aware of the powerful symbol she had adorned herself with. At this point I had to focus on my delivery. I couldn’t allow my frustration with her ignorance to show. “Does it have any special meaning?” “Yeah,” she started. “The book at the ink parlor said it meant ‘forever,’ or something like that. There’s some heavy philosophical shit about it too. The more I thought about it, the more I was like… ‘Wow!’ So, think about it. If this little guy keeps doing what he’s doing, only one of two things is gonna happen. He’s either gonna keep doing this forever and ever, or he’ll eventually succeed in completely swallowing himself… into nothingness. For him it’s not ‘all or nothing;’ it’s ‘all and nothing.’ It’s both… and neither.” I was utterly impressed. Maybe I judged her too quickly. With the exception of her terrible grammar, I couldn’t have said it better myself. She wore a self-satisfied look on her face, which is good. It meant that she felt empowered, empowered by the belief that she had taught me something, and people rarely feel threatened by those that they feel superior to. “I’m Gene,” I said, grinning broadly. “I’m Sheryl,” she flirted. This was going better than I had hoped. Unfortunately, her shit-talking friend decided to put in her two cents. “God Sherry,” her pudgy friend scolded, “you’re so gross!” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Sheryl reacted with no small amount of ‘tude.’ “You’re acting like a slut! Besides, he’s old.” Old? I’m thirty-two, and a young-looking thirty-two at that. “Shut up, Jessie!” Sheryl snapped back.

“Yeah. Shut up, Jessie,” I thought to myself, before hastily changing my mind. The more Jessie griped, the sooner that Sheryl would try to lose her. “Why do you always have to embarrass me in front of some cute guy?” Sheryl continued to defend herself from Jessie’s assessment of her character and my age. I decided to add to it with a statement that would fuel Jessie’s opinion that I was “old,” and convince Sheryl that I was “non-threatening.” “Well I hope you ladies have a designated driver for tonight. The cops are really cracking down this weekend. Heck, I can only imagine that the bars are gonna card hard tonight, just to keep their own noses clean.” I then proceeded to behave disinterestedly Sheryl’s face melted. She looked like I just told her that there was no Santa Claus. “See, Sheryl?” Jessie grumbled. “I told you we should’ve just picked up a bottle of Boone’s and stayed in the dorm.” “Oh my fucking god, Jess” By this point I found it hard to not smirk. They continued their catfight as quietly as their frustration would allow. I continued to write numbers and names as I pretended not to listen. “Sherry, It’s not too late. I know a senior who’ll pick up some wine…” “No fucking way Jess. I’m going out and I’m getting tore up.” “Will you listen to yourself?” “Gimme a break. C’mon, I really wanna get to know this guy.” “He’s married.” “How do you know? Besides, even if he is, I don’t see that stopping him.” “Y’know, Sher, sometimes I just can’t stand you!” “Why, because I’m pretty and you’re fat?” “Oh no you didn’t.” “Go eat another pint of ice cream, and wonder why guys don’t ask you out.” “Fuck you, Sherry.” “And this time, Jess, don’t come crying to me about how lonely you are.”

“Sounds good to me. Have fun with grandpa tonight!” This was perfect. Jessie stormed out, leaving Sheryl resolute in the decision that before the night was over, she would fuck me to spite her friend. I turned my head to watch a pissed off Jess peel out of the lot. I then adopted a look of apologetic remorse as I looked back to Sherry. “I’m… I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to start anything between you and your friend. I… I just came out to get some work done before the weekend.” “It’s okay,” she replied. “It’s not your fault. Jess gets on her high horse sometimes. Besides, I wanted to stay out.” “Still,” I said, “I feel like I should make it up to you somehow. I’ll tell you what. There’s a little corner bar in my neighborhood. The owner and the regulars know me there. They won’t card me because they already know I’m of age. If you were to walk in with me, they wouldn’t stop you either. Just let me work on this for another hour or two, and we can be on our way.” She looked disappointed at the prospect of hanging out, unattended in a fast food joint for two hours. “We could always go now,” she suggested. “I dunno,” I shook my head, “I really need to get this done. I’m really going to regret it if I don’t get this done.” “C’mon. Sundays are for regret. Fridays are for fun. Not only that, but I promise you that if you come out with me tonight, you will definitely… not… regret it.” I reacted almost virginally to her overture. I forced a blush, and with it, a playfully surprised smile. “You do know how to persuade a guy. You’re a regular predator, aren’t you?” I coyly jested to her. She responded with a seductive smirk. “What the hell? Let’s go.” +++++ “So,” she began as the waitress set the pitcher on the table, “how many tatts do you have?” I started counting her drinks. The plan was to nurse one beer and spike her third. “None.” She looked surprised by my response. “I have what they call a ‘rust allergy.’ A tattoo could kill me.”

“Rust allergy?” she asked. “I’m pretty sure they keep the needles clean.” “No, it’s not like that,” I chuckled. “They use different types of oxidized metals for pigmentation in the inks. I have a sensitivity to the two most commonly used metals. Damn shame, too. I always wanted to get some work done.” “What would you get?” I couldn’t exactly blurt out the obvious answer. I couldn’t shatter her illusions. Still, I decided not to stray too far from the object of my fascination. “A dragon… a coiled dragon… on my left shoulder.” “Why a dragon?” “It’s the ultimate predator, the top of the food chain. To hell with what they say about lions, the dragon is the perfect hunter. Did you know that there isn’t a civilized continent on the planet that doesn’t have at least one legend or another about a dragon?” “No shit?” “It’s true. Dragons are the most recurrent theme in man’s fear and superstition. Anyhow, after the dragon tattoo, I figure that I’d spread out from it; I’d build a scene around it.” “That’s cool,” she said, smiling, as I poured her second beer. “So, why did you chose the… uh… snake?” “Well,” she lilted, “I figured that if I was gonna get another tattoo that people would actually see…” “Wait. You mean you have more than just the one?” “Oh yeah. I’ve got a couple of them.” “I didn’t notice any others.” I scanned every square inch of exposed skin, questing for the estranged siblings of the Ouroboros. “Are they under your jacket?” “Oh no. You wouldn’t be able to see them,” she explained and then giggled, “not in public anyway.” Jackpot! I couldn’t believe how well this night was going. The bedroom eyes she cast at me implied that I would willingly get a private viewing of the other tattoos, tattoos that might fit quite nicely into the open spaces of the collection back home. To boot, she

had slammed down the final swallow of beer from her second drink and was exhibiting the early signs of a good buzz. In spite of her apparent willingness and alcohol-induced stupor, I decided it best to eliminate chances and readied the Ketamine. I swept up a cocktail straw from the table and slipped it into the same pocket as the drug. Pressing inward with my thumb, I punctured the seal on the vial with the straw. Capping the open end of the straw, I used it as a pipette, drawing out enough Ketamine to ensure her compliance and letting the remainder soak into the lining of my jacket. That’s when the course of the evening took an unfortunate turn. In this particular circumstance, misfortune had a crew cut and Greek letters on his t-shirt. His pendulous arm collided with my own, casting the straw and its fluid content to the barroom floor. In spite of my effort to hide it, the frat-boy sensed my frustration, and took exception. “What are you looking at, fuckface?” he asked. I began to worry that if Joe College could see my irritation, then so might Sheryl. I needed to remain calm. That’s when I spotted pinup-posed she-devil on his arm. “Nice ink,” I said. “What?” he replied. “No hard feelings,” I continued. “I frequent this place too often to harbor hard feelings. If you wind up out here next weekend, I’ll make it up to you with a pitcher. Cool?” “Cool,” he said as he flashed a stupid-looking smile before meandering deeper into the crowd. Oh well. It’s no use crying over spilled horse tranquilizers. On to plan B. I filled her mug anew. “Waitress? Can I get another pitcher over here?” +++++ I kept the lights off in the living room. I didn’t want to risk her seeing the portrait of Karen, the kids and me. For a beer-addled drunk in heeled pumps, she handled the staircase like a pro. I stayed behind her on the stairs, just in case gravity decided to pick a fight with her. “So… Is this your house?” she inquired.

“Actually,” I belabored, “it’s my cousin’s. I live in the guest bedroom.” It wouldn’t be the first time I used that story. I wasn’t about to take her to my room. After all, the marriage bed should remain a sacred place. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m such a loud drunk. I hope I didn’t wake anyone.” “Don’t worry about it. He and his wife are out of town. Besides,” I said as I spun her around at the top of the stairs, “I’m kind of hoping to make some noise.” I leaned in for a long, wet, sloppy kiss. Her invasive tongue rolled along my gumline before she pulled away from me, replacing my lips with a crooked smirk. “And what makes you so damned sure that we’re going to do anything worth making any noise over?” “Well, if you’re going to show me the rest of your tattoos, I don’t see how I’ll possibly be able to keep my hands off of you.” An aroused and playful giggle left her lips carrying with it the scent of draft beer and spearmint chewing gum. “You’re a bad boy, Gene.” “No, Sherry. You’re a bad girl. I just happen to be a very impressionable boy.” I stepped away from her, walked into the guest bedroom and turned on the light. She followed me in, stopping in the doorway for only a moment to take in the outlay of the room. “So you wanna see my tatts, Gene-O?” she playfully sang. “Among other things,” I responded as I leaned down to give her another kiss. “But first, I gotta hit the bathroom.” Once in the bathroom, I had to work quickly. I turned the fan on to drown out the sounds of what I was really doing. First, I hurriedly grabbed another vial of Ketamine from the medicine cabinet. I then pulled the needle case out of my back pocket to fill it to maximum capacity. It had to be a heavy dose. If she had multiple tattoos, I had to keep her alive and unconscious long enough to remove them. I put the needle back into its case and left it unzipped for a quick grab if need be. I took off my shirt, doused myself with body spray, ran a comb through my hair, and rinsed with mouthwash. I was ready to fuck. Returning to the bedroom, I observed that Sheryl had come to enjoy the sense of empowerment that I had earlier gifted her with. She was seated on the bed, still wearing

her top, but had removed her trousers and underpants, and was tracing a line between her shorn loins and the Ouroboros with the tip of her index finger. “If you want to see my tattoos so badly,” she said, “I’ll only show them to you one at a time... starting with my little bellybutton snake.” She laid back onto the bed, raising her knees and planting the soles of her feet on the bed’s surface. “You really should see it up close.” A more cleverly worded invitation to eat pussy had never been spoken to me. Over the next two hours, I had explored every tattoo on her... the valentine on her firm breast, the cartoon canary on her ass cheek, the Ouroboros. She was lying on her stomach as I sat net to her on the bed, tracing the triangular neo-tribal on her tailbone. Content with the sex that I already had with her, I began to reach for the needle. She must’ve misinterpreted my touches to her tailbone, as she invited even more fucking. “You like that ass, Gene-O? I bet you wanna fuck that ass, doncha Gene? Well, you know what? I wanna feel that big dick o’ yours in my ass.” I found renewed virility at the prospect. It was always one of my favorite things to do to a woman, something I could never do to my wife. It would also give me the chance to deliver the drug without her seeing me do it. I wasted no time. I began to fuck. I readied the needle, only temporarily distracted by the perfect neo-tribal tattoo centered above her imperfect ass. The little slut enjoyed every hard thrust... until she felt the sharp sting to her thigh. “What the fuck!?” she shouted. “That hurt, motherfucker!” She struggled to get away. I grabbed her by the back of her hair. The pumping motion would help the tranquilizer spread through her system quicker, and I wasn’t finished yet. “Ow! Gene, stop it! What are you doing!?” What was taking so damned long? She gets buzzed on two beers and there was enough K in that needle to stone an elephant. She should’ve been out cold by now. Her panic was almost making the sodomy unpleasant for me. “Gene... please...” She almost ruined it by crying. Fortunately, the drugs started to take effect. “Help me...” she barely got out. “Somebody... please... help...” Thank god she finally passed out. Once she shut up, I was able to cum. I collapsed forward onto her back, utterly slaked.!

As a man, it brought me comfort to know that there were women like Sheryl in the world. I was pleased by her initial willingness to satisfy her partner. As a husband and father, Sheryl unsettled me. She represented the type of slut my own daughter might become without positive influences like me in her life. I continued to lay atop the unconscious young woman, both grateful for and disdainful of her. I tucked my chin over her shoulder and whispered into her ear, “Your parents must be so very proud of you.” This tender moment wouldn’t last. I had a limited time frame in which to work. I swept her up from the bed and carried her down into the basement. I began setting up the necessary tools for my busy Saturday ahead. I laid her sleeping form over the basement utility sink and set up a small table with the appropriate cutting tools. The first step involved removing the tattoos while she was still alive. The removal of the art would inevitably kill her from shock and blood loss, but starting while she was alive reduced the risk of decomposition and subsequent discoloration. The inked skin stays freshest when one cores it away from the body with a greater portion of the surrounding flesh. For this reason alone, I had to apply exceptional caution in carving out the Ouroboros. The connection of the navel to her internal tissues needed a steady hand lest I damage the piece. As soon as each item was cut away, they had to be soaked in formaldehyde. As they soaked, I took the opportunity to shower away the sex and beer of the previous evening. The next step was to take the embalmed pieces and cut them to size. I like to give each piece an eighth-inch border, cut and trimmed with a fresh hobby knife. In the case of the Ouroboros, I cut it into a perfect ring, trimming both the inner circle and the outer circle. It had to be perfect. After trimming, each piece would then be dehydrated in a sub-zero acetone bath. Now, for the magic… I placed each tattoo in a different beaker filled with liquid silicone rubber and set the beakers into a closely monitored airtight chamber. Activating the chamber vacuum causes the acetone to boil and vaporize at room temperature, drawing the polymers into the tissue. After laying each plastinate out onto a screen to cure under the ultraviolet lights, I returned to the utility sink where Sheryl’s drained body had finally finished bleeding to death. Now I had to dispose of her. As she was exsanguinated, dismembering the body would be a lot less sloppy. Sawing the extremities at each joint (wrist, elbow, shoulder, knee, hip) allowed for her body to nest securely within the utility sink. I gave Sheryl one final goodbye kiss before dropping her head into the sink. A generous saturation of water-activated lye would begin to dissolve her body into soap, to be carried down the drain and out to the sewer, courtesy of the larger-gauged plumbing I had installed. I even had a garbage disposal blade installed into the drain to prevent the lipid-rich, natural soap from clogging the pipes.

It was Saturday evening. I hadn’t slept since I woke up on Friday morning or eaten since last night’s fast food. With Sheryl disposed of and the plastinates needing at least a full day to cure, I decided to treat myself. I ordered a pizza, rented a movie, and turned in for a long night’s sleep. Sunday morning’s sun rose. Although I had a ton of things to finish before picking up the kids this evening, I afforded myself the luxury of sleeping in on a Sunday. I allowed the morning hour to disappear completely from my life. I was at comfort. Before sunset, the Ouroboros will have been added to the collection a full day before Karen would be back from the west coast. After getting up and invigorating myself with a shower, I returned to the basement to check on the progress of the collectibles. All of the pieces were coming along nicely. The ink stayed vibrant against the skin. The flesh was becoming firm yet pliable. But I had other things to do. I ran back upstairs to tidy the guest bedroom, changing the sheets and disposing of the needle. I couldn’t exactly have any unexpected visitors sleeping on cum-stained sheets. I was as happy as a lark and tunefully whistling like that very same bird. Everything seemed to be going perfectly. That’s when I heard a voice from downstairs that I didn’t expect to hear until Tuesday morning. “Eugene?” Karen’s voice called out. “Gene? Honey, are you home?” “I’m upstairs sweetheart,” I called back. She hadn’t heard me. “Honey? Are you in the basement?” Oh no! I must’ve left the basement door open. I began to panic. “Karen, I’m upstairs!” I called out louder. She didn’t respond. I nearly fell down the stairs in my fevered rush to stop her from going into the basement. Tumbling into the living room, I turned to see the basement door wide open. “No!” I shouted. My throat began to clench and my eyes began to tear. I ran with heels afire down the basement stairs. Karen couldn’t see the goings-on of the basement… she just couldn’t. I was too late. By the time I reached the bottom step, she had already seen it all… the bloodstains, the formaldehyde, the tattoos laid out on the screening. Her eyes were frozen open and her jaw was aquiver. “Honey?” her breathy reaction hung in the air between us.

“You weren’t supposed to be home until Tuesday.” She reached down to pick up the Ouroboros. “Is this what it looks like?” “You weren’t supposed to see…” But she had. It was all too late to change that. She knew about it. “Dammit Karen! It was supposed to be a surprise.” “Gene, it’s beautiful. Just look at me, I’m gushing! It’ll add nicely to my collection. I can finally replace the old one that was discolored from the tannic acid. Oh Gene, the Ouroboros, my favorite!” “It’s always been my favorite too, as a symbol of the human soul…” “… a symbol of the infinite…” she interrupted. “… a symbol of eternal love. Happy anniversary, Karen,” I said as I pulled my wife in for a kiss. Yes. Some people will kill for a loved one’s safety. Some of us kill for a loved one’s happiness. The result is a contagious joy, the one thing that makes me feel… complete. “So,” she smiled, “was this one any good?” “She fucked like a tornado, sweetheart. Just check the sheets in the hamper if you don’t believe me. Way better than it was with our babysitter.” “Was she the one with the four-leaf clover?” “Celtic cross.” “Oh right. Speaking of ‘sitters,’ where are the kids?” “At your folks for the rest of the day.” “So we have the whole place to ourselves,” she playfully flirted. “What do you say to doing something kinkier than usual tonight?” “Sweetheart, please!” I reacted with no small amount of shock. “You’re the mother of my children… …What kind of sicko do you take me for?”

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful