Little Millie, Part 2 By Dreamspinner and B. Dancer A week goes by, then two, then a month. Millie does not return my dozens of emails or phone calls. I tire of leaving messages on her machine. I wonder if her husband has had a turn for the worse and has had to go into a nursing home and think if that's the case, that's why she hasn't gotten back to me. Then I change my mind and convince myself she doesn't ever want to see me again. On the other hand, her husband may well be all right. But then if he's OK, I don't know why she wouldn't want to see me. I am very depressed and like always when I get depressed I throw myself into my work, staying well past ten PM at Graystone North and other places. There is a very hot endocrinologist named Helen Wilkinson I see sometimes at GN. She's about my age and she hits on me every time she sees me but I couldn't care less. In the wee hours when I can't sleep, I play my muscle clips and strum myself in earnest, trying to recreate that night when Millie went down on me while the girl on the monitor clenched and unclenched her calf. I am glad my nubbin is nearly indestructible. Two months pass and I rethink my position on the hot endocrinologist. I am in the shower, getting ready to go to GN, shaving, thinking about her when I hear a voice leaving a message on my machine and turn off the water to hear it better. It's Millie, saying she wants me to call her. I turn off the water and hurry in my office and pick up the phone. I fumble to hit the 'stop' button. When the squealing feedback stops I blurt, "Millie? You've got me live, Millie. Are you still there?" She laughs her lilting little laugh like it was only yesterday we were together. I am hurt and lash out. "What's so funny?" I demand. Millie stops laughing. "Take it easy, Glenda," she says. "You sounded so frantic. It struck me funny, that's all." I say nothing and stand there, water running down me and pooling on the floor, trying to figure whether I should go off on her or be kind. I don't know what to do, so I apologize. "Sorry," I say. I don't mean it. "That doesn't sound very sincere," she says. I am furious. "You're right," I say, through clenched teeth. "It wasn't. I'm not sorry! I'm mad as hell at you for not getting back to me!" Now I'm shouting into the receiver. "Glenda," she says, suddenly very serious. "I've been meaning to call, but I just couldn't bring myself to until this morning." "I'm listening," I say. I sit down, bare-assed, on my leather chair, knowing I'm getting it wet but not caring. "My husband is dead," she says, and then, "I found him on the floor when I got home. He was already cold." "When you got home that day?" "Yes," she says. I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. Guilt washes over me. "It's my fault," I say in a small voice. "You're not responsible," she says. "I was the one who made the decision to meet you for lunch, and go back with you to your place, and to fall asleep on your bed. You didn't make me do any of those things." "OK," I say, and stop, not having a clue about where it ought to go from here. "I'd love to see you," Millie says. "I'd like that," I say. Relived, I laugh and tell her she's called while I was in the shower and I'm still dripping wet. She apologizes profusely and begs me to go towel off. I tell her I will, but not until we make a date. Then she says she's not ready yet. Maybe in a year, she says. Not before, she says. I'm stunned. "A year?" I ask. "Yes," she says. "A year." "Millie," I say. "Please, no. Sooner. I miss you." I hear her crying. "No. A year. I'll call you. I promise," she says. Then she hangs up. I resolve to have my way with Helen Wilkinson, the hot endocrinologist. I get up and go back and finish my shower. I am on the make and overdress on purpose, hoping she's at Graystone North today. I pick out my favorite skirt and blouse, dark hose and black pumps. A simple gold chain. I pull my hair back and put on my lipstick. I think I look good, but I'm obviously anxious, with flushed cheeks and the arteries across my temples bulging. I take my pulse. It's racing, and so is my mind. By the time I get to Graystone North my pulse is where it ought to be, but my mind is still racing. I park my car and go in, striding like a lioness. I'm looking for trouble. The internist is sitting at the nurses' station, writing a note. She looks up at the sound of my heels clicking on the tile. I can see color come to her cheeks, even from a hundred feet away. I get close and I see her moisten her lips. "Hello, hot stuff," she says, when I get close. I look around quickly. No one else is around. "Hello, yourself," I say. I put my briefcase and doctor's bag on the counter. I put out full-strength 'available vibes.' I say, "Have you heard who they want me to examine today?" I fold my arms on the counter and wait. She rises to the bait. "You can start with me," she says, leaning forward so her blouse falls open. I see the insertion of heavier-than-average pectoral muscles along her sternum. She knows I'm looking down her blouse and tenses up so the muscles get more distinct. "Well," she says. She licks her lips. "Do you want to listen to my lungs?" She reaches out and touches my hand. "I said, 'do you want to listen to my lungs?'" I shake my head to clear it. "I think they're just fine," I say. "I don't need to listen." She tenses up her chest again. "Don't you think you better check, just to be sure?" I feel myself blush. "Well, maybe I should, just to be sure," I say. I fish in my bag and get my stethoscope and walk around to where she's sitting. We are still alone. "Just relax and take a deep breath," I say, slipping the cold instrument in her blouse. She's wonderfully warm. The contrast between her breasts and the thick underlying muscle is electrifying. I kick myself for ignoring her before now. Her fragrance is intoxicating. She takes my wrist. "Aren't you going to listen?" she asks. I realize I haven't put the eartips in my ears. I'm perspiring and look around for a Kleenex. I find one on the station, wipe my brow, and stick the eartips where they're supposed to go. The sound of air filling her lungs enchants me, and I can tell from the sound of her heart beating efficiently and slowly that she is a well-conditioned athlete. It occurs to me that even though they told us it wasn't in medical school, auscultation is an intimate act. The heat coming off her makes it feel like I'm standing by a cookstove. I take the eartips out and announce, "You're in excellent condition." I remember the sound of her heart. I wipe my brow again. "So are you," she says. Her eyes hold mine. "Am I?" I say. I put my scope back in my bag. "You know you are, Glenda," she says. I look at her like I'm looking at her for the first time, thinking about the way she used my name. I'm a little surprised she did and more than a little embarrassed at how much I liked hearing her say it, and embarrassed and flattered and turned on that she knows I'm in excellent condition because that means she's been checking me out and I'm an idiot for pining away for someone old enough to be my mother when this dreamboat my own age has been here all along. She grabs me by the wrist again and shakes it. "Penny for your thoughts," she says. She bats her eyes. "Can I call you Helen?" I say. She bends over and laughs hard. "You always do!" she says, when she catches her breath and straightens up. "I do, don't I!" I say. Helen shakes her head. "You do!" she declars. Then, after a moment, says, "What's gotten in to you, anyway?" She looks around like she's checking to be sure we're still along. We are, and she continues. "I've nearly begged you to notice me for months and here you are today, strolling in like you owned the place, putting out 'come and get it' vibes." "I can't explain it," I say, lamely. She looks at me askance. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it." "That's more to the point, actually," I say. "If you don't mind me not explaining, I'd like to get acquainted. Let's start by just talking. Is that okay?" "Isn't that the way it always starts?" she asks. We make plans to meet at 5:00 at Romano's Macaroni Grill at Trader's Point on 86th street. At that time on a weekday, we'll have the place mostly to ourselves, I say, and she agrees. We'll have a good conversation, she says. I agree and we shake on it. Her hand is thick and I get hot, just having it in mine. I get to Romano's at 5:00, but there's no Helen. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. I think about calling Graystone North, but think better of it and pace around the foyer instead. The hostess has been looking me over ever since I came in, and when I start pacing, her eyes glue to my legs. I stand with my back to her, pretending to be looking out the window, but instead, I'm going up on my toes so my thick calves bulge. It's getting dark and I can see her reflection in the glass. Her eyes get big and I see her hand slip underneath the desk and her shoulder starts moving like she's diddling herself. I go up real high so my calves cramp. When I feel that, I know the muscles are real distinct, and with the black hose I'm wearing, I know they look especially good. By the look on the hostess' face, she thinks so, too. A minute of me on my toes and she has to call another girl over to take her place and she nearly runs off to the ladies' room. I'm very pleased with myself. I hope Helen likes big, meaty calves. I look at my watch. It's 5:45. I get out my cell phone and punch in the number to GN, but as it dials, I see Helen pull in. I click it off and put it back in my purse. I see Helen putting on fresh lipstick. She gets out of her car and I see she walks with grace and confidence. She has ballerina calves, the kind that swoop out suddenly. The medial heads of her gastrocs are real distinct and the size of petite filets mignon. And she has radical turnout. I love the way she walks. I hold the door open long before she gets close, just so I can see her unobstructed. She steps in and takes me in her arms and we hold each other overlong. Her fragrance is intoxicating. I hear the hostess clear her throat and we let loose of each other. "Can I show to you a table?" she asks, the words dripping out. She glares at me. We order coffee and when it comes, sip without speaking for minutes that seem like hours, our menus lying on the table, open but unread. Finally, Helen puts her cup down, reaches across the table and takes my hands in hers. Without saying anything, she gives my hands a squeeze and then lets them go. "OK," I say. "What now?" Helen crosses her arms on the table and says, "Let's get to know each other." "How?" I ask. She reaches across the table and takes my hands again. "By telling each other about ourselves," she says. "But let's take it slowly, OK." I nod. "You first," she says. "Tell me all about yourself. What's your favorite color, where do you like to shop, and how old are you?" She gives my hands a squeeze. "And most importantly, tell me when you knew." I hesitate. "When I knew what?" "That you were a lesbian," she says, and then, "And what's this thing you have with muscle? When did that start? That really intrigues me. Go," she says. I look around to see if anyone might have overheard and realize the hostess has seated us in the corner, far from the nearest other patrons. I see her at the front desk, watching us. She sees me look at her and gives me a filthy look. I take my hands back. "How did you know I have a thing for muscle? Anyway, I thought you said you wanted to take it slowly." Helen smiles like the Cheshire cat and says, "Anyone with calves like yours has to have a thing for muscle. Are you denying it?" I realize this woman has my number. Besides, we're both adults. And, even though she didn't exactly say she likes big calves, at least she's noticed mine. I'm betting she does, so I shrug my shoulders and say, "OK, why not?" and plunge into it. "I liked seeing girls' muscles (and my own) at least as early as the fourth or fifth grade," I say. "That would have been about 1967 or so. I'd play on the jungle gym at recess more than the other girls. I could do more chin-ups than most of the boys and in fact, I held the county record for chin-ups." "Do you still have strong muscles?" she asks, and reaches over and gives my upper arm a squeeze. Her eyes get wide. "Jesus, Glenda, you do!" Just then the hostess comes over and asks if we're ready to order. Helen and I look at each other and laugh. I tell the girl we haven't even looked at the menu and ask if she could sent a waiter over in a few minutes. She gives me another dirty look and goes away. "We've been here for at least a half hour," Helen says. "We'd better order so they don't kick us out." I wave at the girl and she sends a waiter over. After we order, I go back to my story. "Anyway," I say, "Amy, my best friend, and I would hang around the playground after school and play on the jungle gym, seeing who could do the most chin-ups. I always won, of course." "Of course," Helen says. "Yes, but I'd help her do more than she could on her own by lifting her up by the hips when she ran out of gas. Truthfully, I liked to do this not because I wanted to help her improve, but because I liked seeing her little round biceps." Helen says, "I guessed as much." The waitress comes with our food and we make small talk while we eat. After the girl clears our dishes away, I get back to it. "Anyway, I'd encourage her to do more and more, since the more she'd do, the more her arms swelled up, and I liked that." "And your arms?" Helen says. "Were they swollen up, too?" She squirms like she's suddenly uncomfortable down below. "Yes," I say. "Because for every set of chin-ups she did, I'd do one, and, after each set, we'd feel each other's arms to see if they were bigger than the last time. That was very arousing for me." I shake my head with the memory of Amy. "She was a 'B' in elementary school, and she was sure doing chin-ups made her breasts bigger. She had nice ones. They were high and perky, as I recall. I still have an image of one really hot afternoon with her all sweaty and her T-shirt stuck to her chest with her two, little rock-hard nipples poking out, and us trading feels of each other's muscles." Helen wipes her brow with her napkin and says, "What else comes to mind?" "Several times she told me her muscles hurt after we had done multiple sets of chin-ups. She asked me to rub her arms," I say. "I remember very distinctly how they felt in my ten year-old hands. I loved the feel of springy muscle under my thumbs and fingers even then. Who knows what might have happened if she'd stayed in town, but her dad was transferred. Then about seven years after she moved away, she wrote." "What did she say?" I lean over the table. "She told me quite frankly that she'd enjoyed my massages! In fact, she said she faked being sore in order to get me to feel her muscles. And, she said on one singular occasion, she had what she later realized was her first orgasm. She said the feel of my hands on her muscle pushed her over." Helen's mouth falls open. "The irony is that I had my first one on the same occasion. I remember it like it was yesterday. Amy had her back to the jungle gym with her hands on the bars above her head so her elbows were at ninety degree angles...you know, like a muscle pose." Helen nods. She seems nearly hypnotized. "Anyway," I go on, "She had her arms tensed so her little biceps were sticking up and I was working away on them, massaging the soreness out (or so I thought), when she started gasping and pulling harder on the bars, which of course made her muscles harder. Then something I'd never experienced happened. In a moment, I was wet between the legs. When it happened, I let go and stepped back. Amy and I couldn't look at each other. We walked a few blocks together and when she came to her house, she said goodbye and went up the steps and in, and I went the rest of the way home with sticky underpants. And that's when I knew." Helen waves the waiter over and orders more wine for both of us. When it comes, we have a few sips without saying anything. Finally, Helen says, "Okay, now for the important things: What's your favorite color, where do you like to shop, and how old are you?" Without missing a beat, I say, "Blue, Parisians, and forty-eight. You?" Helen laughs and takes a sip of wine. "Red, Saks, and forty-seven." "Excellent," I say. "And?" She looks at me across the rim of her glass, making little eyes. "And, what?" "And when did you know? And when did you know you had a thing for muscle?" She runs her tongue around her lips. "You think I have a thing for muscle?" I hold my glass up to my mouth and stare at her across the rim. "I saw you flex your pecs, remember," I say. "Any woman who does that when they see another woman looking down her blouse has to be a lesbian and has to have a thing for muscle." I take another sip. I'm getting lightheaded. Helen nods. "I remember the first time I got turned on to my own muscles. For my fifteenth birthday, my parents finally paid for professional ballet classes. I was doing a lot in school and other dance group type things, but it was unstructured. Not pure. I had to go to beginners' classes of course. I was years older than most." I nod. "This is like it was yesterday, for you, isn't it?" She nods. I think she's sad, somehow. "Anyway, the instructor recognized my skills and after a quick few weeks of basic stuff, she put me in the right age bracket. This was a class with other fourteen to sixteen year-old girls. I soon noticed I had a lot more muscle than they did. We were 'obeying' our dance mistress, doing basic ballet exercises. I was very good at it and soon two of the girls were obviously trying to keep up with me. We were doing reverse toe rises, you know, left-right-left-right?" "Relevées," I say. Helen reaches across and takes my hand. "Yes," she says. "Relevées. In fifth position. Anyway, the more I did, the harder and tighter I could feel my legs getting, especially my butt and thighs. I liked the feeling of getting real solid." "I know the feeling." She takes her hand back. "I kept going as long as I could, even after the instructor dismissed the class. Like for ten minutes longer. By then my legs were shaking and started to cramp up." "Potassium depletion," I say. "Probably, yes," she agrees. She finishes her wine, sets the glass down precisely and continues. "I looked in the mirror and saw how tight my leg muscles were. I really looked at my legs and saw a distinct hour glass shape, like from the knees down. The top of my thighs barely touched. Below my knees I had a real thick calf touch. It was the first time I noticed that my calves were nearly as big as my thighs. I changed and ended up being the last girl to shower. We had private stalls. I couldn't resist reaching up and gripping the shower head for balance and giving my legs a few last pumps." Helen finishes her wine and motions the waiter over. She looks at me like 'do I want another?' I nod and she orders two more. When they come, we drink half without talking. I kick off my shoe and reach across and run my toe up Helen's calf. She makes it hard. I can feel the abrupt rise of the medial head of her gastrocs and wish I could see it. I want to see her make her filets bulge. I want her to stand with her heels together and see her thick steaks touch. I want to run my hand between the space between her thighs, all the way up. "Where was I" she asks. "In the shower, I believe," I say. I'm tipsy. "Right. The shower head shifted and when it did, the stream hit my breast first and then it hit right on my pussy!" We laugh, then she continues. "I eased back and let the stream pummel it. I'd been at a few slumber parties and had heard girls talk about 'things' but I'd never really known what they meant until that singular moment." She shakes her head. "You know," she says, "The soap and water seemed to somehow make it 'clean.'" The place has gotten loud, and it occurs to me that Helen's nearly been shouting across the table. I suggest we finish the conversation outside. She agrees, and we go out to the parking lot. Helen suggests we sit in her car and we do. After three seconds, I get the idea I might want her to kiss me, so I ask very innocently if she wouldn't mind pulling off to the far edge of the lot. I tell her the lights from the passing cars on 86th street distract me. She knows what I want. She has to, I think. We go over by the Dow/Elanco AgResearch Center gate where there are no other cars and she turns off the motor. I take her hand. It's thick, like I remember, and I get warm and tingly all over. I let my head back on the headrest and close my eyes. I imagine Helen looking at my profile and hope she likes it. It's my best side. If she wants, she can kiss me. I lick my lips. She gives my hand a squeeze and then lifts it to her face. I feel her breath on my fingers. "I love your fragrance," she says. "Sunflowers," I say. "It's old, and it's inexpensive, but I like it." I feel her lips on the back of my hand. She touches the place between the knuckles of the first and second fingers with her tongue, then gently pushes it between them. I shudder. "May I kiss you?" she says. "I wish you would," I say, and turn to her. Her arms wind over my shoulders and pull me to her. An inch apart, we stop, and then our lips touch. On cue, we let our mouths open slightly, then our tongues slide out and touch for the first time. She is delicious. I taste wine, garlic, and lipstick. We are hesitant at first, but then push hard and press our mouths together and kiss furiously. She paws me and I paw her. "I admit, I do have a thing for muscle!" I gasp, and run my hand up and down her leg. She tenses it and I feel the cords in her thigh stand out. Her hands are everywhere, squeezing my thick arms, my breasts, feeling my round shoulders. "I knew it!" she declares. "So do I!" she admits. "Finish your story," I say, still kissing, kissing, kissing her. "Are you insane?" she says. "No," I say. "Tell me about how the shower pummeled your pussy. The idea of it makes me crazy!" She pulls up for air and then kisses me and kisses me. "Okay," she says, biting my lips. She tells me she checked things out 'down there' and found what she now knows was a very swollen clit. It was ultra-sensitive, she says, and between the water hitting it and standing with one hand on the shower head keeping her balance while she stood on her toes, she says, 'it' was 'it.' "Tell me more," I say, sliding my hand up her thigh towards her crotch. "I can't concentrate," she says. "I have faith in you, Helen," I say. "Proceed." I rest my fingers on her pussy and kiss and kiss and kiss her. I make her talk around my lips and busy tongue. I unbuttoned her blouse and unfasten her bra. "You've got small, tight tits and thick pecs, just like I like 'em," I slur. She arches her back and manages to tell me for years afterward, she compared her O's to the one she had in the shower. She says it wasn't fair to the guys she had sex with, but on the other hand, she says, most guys at that young age had no clue about a girl's body and what she needed. "Men are saps at any age," I say. "Continue." I slip my fingers under her panties and find the edge of her wetness. I know I'm torturing her, but I don't stop kissing her, clutching at her everywhere but my other hand always returns to the edge of her pussy after making a circuit of all her erogenous zones. I implore her to continue, difficult as it may be. I love her tits, especially, and tell her so every few seconds. Helen's breath catches in her throat every time I touch her nipple, but she manages to keep on. For years, she says, if she was in the mood, she'd go in the shower at home or at the gym or at the school and do the same thing. To this day, she says, she can clearly remember the feel of her muscles straining to hold up her body and the water and the sensation of playing with her clit at the same time for the first time. "Tell me more about the boys' attempts to get you off," I say cruelly, pushing her hard. Helen looks me in the eyes. She's says she's nearly mad with passion, but I tell her I won't relent until she tells me this last thing. "I didn't have a boy get me to an O until mid-senior year," she says between gasps. "Although I had sex on occasion. I'd fake O's to make them feel better. Until my twenties I thought I was over-sexed, thinking that a girl was weird if she wants to or enjoyed having an O as often as I did." She's squirming now, begging for it. I've got her just where I want her. "Do you want to come now?" She turns to me and takes my face in her hands. "Jesus, yes!" she shouts. "Make me come, Glenda. Make me scream." She's wide eyed. In fifteen seconds flat, I have her writhing, riding my middle finger, my thumb and forefinger rolling her clit. She's a maniac, coming again and again, her wrist shoved in her mouth to muffle her screams. I count fifteen full-blown orgasms. Finally, she quiets and collapses in my arms. By the clock on the dashboard, it has taken twenty-seven minutes to satiate her. She promptly goes to sleep, letting me sit there and hold her sweaty body and think about what she's said and what we've just done. Her car smells like pussy. There's nothing like making a woman come to give me an orgasm, and my panties are sticky with it. I squirm around to get in a more comfortable position and adjust the visor so I can watch Helen's face as she sleeps. Her mouth twitches like a baby's, and I feel myself falling in love with her. I can imagine waking up next to her and with that thought, I feel like I'm about to cry. If she was still awake, I'd say fast forward about four years after Amy. That would put me in my sophomore year. It was about then I started to think my clit was wired into the same circuitry as my muscles. And, if Helen was awake and asked why, I'd tell her I got a 'tension' that came upon me when I'd exercise, and I'd tell her my mom and dad got me girls' dumbbells after I begged them for months. I had to strap several of them together to get enough weight to get a good arm workout, I'd say, and I'd say what turned me on was to put on a blouse that had tight sleeves and I'd lift those strapped together dumbbells until the sleeves were really tight. Later in bed, I'd shift the sleeves up over my little arm muscles and put my hands behind my head or reach back to my headboard and pull on the slats to make them peak up. Helen has the face of an angel, I think. I wish she could know my thoughts, that at the same time I was pulling on my headboard, I'd cross my ankles or work one leg or the other working the inner heads of my calves. I want her to know I usually did heavy calf work first, then arms, then got back to calves. I want her to know I was crazy to get big muscles, and, to get off. I'd feel my clit swell up and get very sensitive and large. Sometimes I liked to twirl and fondle it with one hand and feel my biceps at the same time, and I'd tell her I still do it. That is, if she was awake. I'm intoxicated with the idea of sharing these things and my thoughts come racing, unbidden. I want desperately for Helen to know I felt different because I had better, or more, or whatever you call it, muscles than most girls. Feeling them was very special somehow. It was like affirming that I was real. Feeling them, feeling the shape, from flaccid to a hard peak or trying on a blouse and discovering that the arms were too tight turned me on. More than anything, I want her to know that even though I'm a lot older, I still have the same ideas and feelings about muscle. Helen shifts her weight and snuggles up against me, but doesn't seem to wake up. After a moment, I continue aloud, pretending to be having a conversation with her, playing her part, too. "Why was having nice, round^×not huge^×but defined, hard muscles a turn on, you ask? I guess for the same reason a girl with really large breasts might want to touch them or wear really revealing clothes. I wanted other girls to see them, of course." I feel my nipples straining against my bra. I've got one on that fastens in the front and I'm able to reach in and free my breasts and I don't disturb Helen, I think. Then I go on. "What's the absolute turn-on for me? It's a toss-up between three or four things. The absolute ultimate to me would be to see another well-shaped woman getting off to just seeing my body. Then, one with the same type of body as mine and her watching me feeling my muscles. Or, feeling another woman's hard muscles, especially feeling them working, tensed, and softening. Next would be seeing a well-shaped woman flexing while I watch. I'm a member of several female muscle websites, you know, and I download clips of women flexing their muscles. Sometimes just watching is enough to get me off, but sometimes I have to help the process along. I'm sure you understand." I'm really pleased with myself for summing it all up so nicely. I just wish she could have heard my soliloquy. I feel her hand on the side of my face. She sits up and puts her lips close to my ear. "Of course, I understand," she whispers. Helen has me grab the handle above the passenger seat window and pull hard on it so it makes my muscle pop up, then she fondles it like it's the object of her innermost desires. She instructs me to beat myself off as she feels my muscle. She gets up close so her mouth is right by my ear and whispers how much she's attracted to me, how she's loved seeing my big calves pumping as I walk along, how my big muscles stretching tight the sleeves of my blouse make her cream her jeans just looking at them, and she tells me how beautiful I am, with my forty-eight year-old face and gray hair. I feel her lips brushing my ear. She says everything I've ever wanted to hear and more and I come like I've never come before, gushing out, spurting my juice out, feeling it runny between my fingers, my heart pounding, salt tears stinging my eyes. When I'm done I take her face in my hands and we kiss and kiss, our mouths wide open, her hands on my freed breasts and mine on hers. Our tongues squirm against each other. I don't care about anything else except that moment. On the way home, I wonder why I ignored Helen for so long. I see my face in the rearview. My lips are bruised but I'm smiling. The idea I could have ever found Millie attractive seems ludicrous. "What the hell was I thinking? I say aloud.