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yelping for me to stop, but I was too close to cummin and then she said, "Cum please, cum!" So after it was all over, she laid down on the bed and starting saying, "I cant believe I did this, I cant believe I did this!" My legs were so weak that I laid down on the bed with her and told her thanks for granting my wish. And then she said, "I will never do this again!" She got off the bed and went into the bathroom and I just wanted something for me to remember her by, so I took her panties and stuffed them in my pants while she was in the bathroom. She came out of the bathroom and looked at my now limp dick glistening with my cum and she started getting dressed and noticed that her panties were gone. I told her that I took them and she said, "What do you want with them?" I said, "I just want something to remember you by because you are the prettiest woman Ive ever made love to." And she thought that was just not right that Id keep her panties like that. Tory thanked me and as she walked out the door, I just couldnt help but to look at her fine ass one more time and think how lucky I was to fuck such an incredible ass.

I used to ride the train for hours alone. The 7:40 pm to Vanguard avenue. The 8:20 to Hollyhock St. The entire night I would sit on the lonely train and look out over the city, the lights of homes, and offices showing like stars through the black window. Sometimes I would ride longer than other times. When the conductor would come on to announce the arriving stop, I wouldnt much pay attention. After all, it didnt really matter where I got off did it? Was I running from something? Was I running to something? Am I just trying to keep my mind occupied? I would ask myself all those questions. I think the latter question was the correct one. I wasnt trying to run from something, and I certainly was riding the train to anywhere in particular. I just liked to sit, and watch things go by. I liked being in my own little world while I didnt think about things, and things didnt think about me. In my old, regular life I used to be an editor for the Living column in the local newspaper- the largest newspaper in the city actually- and I was married for 5 years I think. Work was what I liked to do. Going through college as an English major, I knew I had to make a choice of career fast, and I certainly didnt want to teach or write. So editing was it. I also would write reviews for a magazine that was produced mainly for movie buffs. The reviewing was mostly a side job, just to keep my mind from being restless. It


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was also fun to do, and that made it easier to accomplish. My wife had been a complete sweetheart. She was the type of woman you loved to be around, no matter what the reason was. She was an unusual woman, but in all the greatest ways. Carol was her name wasnt it? Yes. She was beautiful. Long brown hair. Lovely, bright green eyes. Long, smooth legs. She was to die for. And then I almost did, but it didnt turn out the way it should have. Our home was broken in to. Quite an unusual thing to happen for the neighborhood we lived in. The man was startled when Carol woke up to discover him in our room. He had our back turned to us on our bed, rummaging his hands through our dresser. When Carol left out a soft gasp, the man whipped around. Her hand grasped my shoulder and shook my body softly. The man had let out a small yelp, and my hand was already half way to turning the nightstand light on. When I did I noticed the man had a gun already pointed at Carol. His blue eyes showed terror, and inexperience. I raised my hands to protest, and Carol reached for the phone on my side of the bed. When the bullet went through my hand my eyes closed, blood sprayed over my face, and I smelled a small hint of gunpowder. The .22 caliber bullet struck and shattered bone in my hand on its way to another bone, this bone did not shatter, but chipped, and sent the bullet through my palm in a downward trajectory. After it left my palm, spraying blood over my face, it went right through the back of Carols upper neck, who had reached over my lap to grab the phone. The bullet entered into her spinal column, and stopped slowly. The next 3 years are a blur. I remember clutching Carol to me, screaming for the ambulance to hurry. I remember flashes of her funeral. Now, all I remember is the train I rode home from her funeral, and how I have ridden the same train around the entire city for the last year and a half. Through all the long times of riding this train, Carols death has become numb. While it’s better for her to be forgotten -except for the good things I remember- new feelings have formed after her disappearance from my thoughts. Most of them are not happy feelings, and most of them are not even sane feelings. But the feeling that always strikes the hardest, and the longest, is the loneliness. The longing for someone else hurts the most. The yearning for the ability to merely touch someone could make my heart stop beating all by itself. And then the weirdest, but greatest, thing happened. One evening I was riding the train as I would usually on any evening of the week, and I happened to turn my head from the