Michelle washes thoroughly. Her mons, devoid of hair, looks pre-pubescent. She rinses it of suds, then pats the region dry... adds powder... contemplates the state of her threadbare robe. Definitely unsuitable. Happily, she has purchased a replacement. On the bathroom radiator, a box rests, out of which she extracts a rayon nightgown. The fabric falls unfettered as she pulls it overhead, except for a fold hung up on her lifebuoy bosom. Tugging, she adjusts the gown full length, its sheerness outlining nipples erect with expectation. Tongue massaging her teeth, she decides they need a brushing. Is there time? Morgan is at risk, she feels, of taking flight...
...is, in fact, on the verge; he sits in an easy chair uneasily, hands clamped onto its arm rests, spine about to spring, to extricate himself from this awkward situation; never has he cheated on Gillian prior. He takes a foil-wrapped condom from its three-pack box, which he stashes underneath the stout upholstery. He glances around. Shadows ill-disguise the room's shabby furnishings. Surely she could live less coarsely than this. Morgan waits... shifts anxiously... waits... shifts with mounting agitation...rises from the chair... decides he should leave; the barefoot sound of sex forestalls his emigration.

 

 

"2 am...

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