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Message-ID: <41865asstr$1050365407@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} You Whore (F/M+, cheat) ~ by DrSpin (NEW to ASSM)
Date: Mon, 14 Apr 2003 20:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

You Whore (F/M+, cheat)
by Neil Anthony aka DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Ladyneko 
under an exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 50 more of my new 
stories. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

The long, cold night would soon be day. He sat on the broad 
ledge of the bay window, a blanket across his shoulders, 
looking at the tree close by, the one with no leaves, the 
one they had planted together so it would grow to fill their 
bedroom window.

"You whore," he whispered.

He had said it so many times during the long, cold night that 
he was now saying it out of habit, without inflection, accent, 
or intent.

He said it again. "You whore."

Eleven years of blood, sweat, and tears.

They had married young and worked hard, taking risks you can 
only be take when you don't know enough about life to be 
scared by it. He'd worked at two jobs, all day and half the 
night, and she also worked until she was carrying their first 
child. More risks, and second mortgages, and then his own 
truck maintenance business with its impossible demands and 
long hours. A second child, and finally some time to enjoy 
the rewards. He could play in a social softball league on 
Sunday mornings. She could return to the choral singing where 
he first met her when she was sixteen and he seventeen. She 
could take up a part-time job at the craft centre, not because 
they needed the money, but for the pleasure of it.

Eleven years, and their second child long dead and buried, 
lost to a savage viral infection that snuffed him out in just 
three days. Maybe it was then that their partnership showed 
the cracks in the concrete. You wonder why you try when a 
three-year-old leaves you without warning or justification.

His mouth shaped the words but no sound emerged. You whore.

He nursed the fear for two days before he put the accusation 
to her. "One of the trucks broke down on Thursday," he said, 
no longer able to hold it back. They were getting ready for 
bed. "I had to go into town to fetch it. I saw you in the 
street. You were holding hands with a man I don't know." 

A woman and a man can be friends, even best buddies. But a 
woman and man who hold hands are intimate. They are lovers.

She did not answer. She sat down at her dressing table, looked 
at herself in the mirror, and started brushing her hair. He 
could not remember when she last brushed her hair at that 
mirror. She used to do it every night, when her hair was long, 
but that was years ago.

He got into bed, their bed, propped himself on two pillows, 
and waited. The charge gained weight through silence.

"That was Derek," she said eventually, brushing her hair. 
"He's a very talented sculptor."

"That wasn't the question," he said.

"Was there a question?"

He sighed, revealing his hurt and distress in a rush of 
breath. "Ah, Caroline."

"Oh hell," she said quietly, a tremor in her voice. "Do I have 
to do this? Are you really sure you want to know?"

It would take a stronger and better man than he was not to 
want to know. 

"I have to know," he said, already knowing more than he 
wanted. 

So, it was so. Caroline and this man, Derek, this sculptor. Oh 
Caroline, you whore.

"I am having an affair with Derek," she said. 

She had put down the brush and was looking at her reflection, 
which he could not see from his angle. All he could see was 
her back straight, her shoulders set, and her hair shining.

"Yes, I thought perhaps you were," he said.

The silence in the room was absolute. They sat still, both, 
and barely breathed.

"For how long?" he asked.

"Around six weeks."

"When will it end?"

"I hadn't thought about that."

He measured each word she said and chose his questions 
carefully.

"How long have you been fucking him?"

"Around six weeks."

"So it's a fucking affair, I take it, not a fucking love 
affair?"

"I guess it must be," she said stiffly, with a brief flash of 
anger.

"So he's a good fuck, then, this Derek?" he asked instantly, 
matching her anger.

No response.

"Caroline?"

"I'm not going to answer questions like that," she said.

"I see," he said. "So he's that good, eh?"

No response.

"You whore, Caroline."

No response.

"You whore." He said it again, but for his own benefit, so he 
could hear properly how it sounded, and wonder at the 
implications of it. His wife, fucking another man. Six weeks 
of it. How many times? Too many to count, too many to 
remember, too many to be relevant.

His wife. They had been through so much together, and she had 
betrayed him. Another man had held her, kissed her, removed 
her clothes, taken her to himself, totally, all of her, a man 
who had done none of the work, shed none of the tears, 
invested nothing but his cock and his hard eyes.

Eleven years, and it had come to this. Wait. Eleven years was 
a long time.

"Have there been others, Caroline?"

No response.

"Oh, you whore," he said.

She got up from the stool in front of the mirror and walked 
slowly to the bed. She stood beside it, looking down at him. 
She had a tight, slight smile on her face, lopsidedly 
apologetic.

"Poor baby," she said, sounding like she meant it.

That rocked him hard.

"How many?" he croaked.

She shrugged. "Does more than one matter?"

"It matters."

"Six. No, counting Derek, seven."

"You filthy, rotten whore."

He studied her critically, spitefully. He hadn't studied her 
for a long time. She was Caroline, always there, always 
Caroline, his virgin bride. She was not long turned twenty-
nine, tall and upright, with that long torso and those heavy, 
overstated, exaggerated breasts. She stood by their bed in her 
silver nightgown, breasts hanging low and deep. She didn't 
have the figure she once had. Children, grief, and age had 
taken toll and brought her a heavier gravity. She still had a 
teenage girl's face. But a whore's face.

"Allan, I'm tired," she said. "Will you allow me to get into 
bed? Are you going to be trouble?"

"You can get into bed," he said. "But first you can lose that 
gown. I want to see what your seven lovers have done to you."

The lopsided smile returned, and there was amusement in her 
eyes as she slipped the straps over her shoulders. The silver 
gown collapsed to the floor.

Yes, her breasts were slung lower these days, no longer 
pointing horizontally. Had they got bigger? They looked 
bigger. Slightly bandy and shortish legs, hips broad, 
pubic hair dark and vigorous. Her stomach was more rounded 
than he remembered. She was stacking on the weight there, and 
on her hips. She'd never been truly slim. She had bidden 
farewell to youth, but -- with her small childish face and her 
big womanly body -- she was a female most men would want to 
fuck. She had the look about her that said she knew it, and 
that she would fuck any man who wanted her. Why was it only 
now he was seeing it so clearly?

"What do you see?" she asked, secure in her sexuality and in 
the certain knowledge that men still wanted her.

"I see a whore," he said.

She slipped under the bed sheets and instantly sought his hard 
cock. "Ha-ha, but tonight you want me," she said, and she 
could not keep a note of triumph from her voice. "You never 
want me much, but tonight you do."

Damn her for knowing that, he thought. 

Yes, his Caroline, the girl he married, would not know that. 
This Caroline was another woman. This Caroline had lovers she 
fucked in the heat of the afternoon. He wanted suddenly to 
fuck this slutty Caroline. It had been a long time since he'd 
wanted to fuck the other one.

Quickly he rolled over on her. She spread her legs 
accommodatingly, wearing her lopsided smile. He pushed into 
her immediately and stabbed at her rapidly. It was over in a 
few seconds. He lost the plot, never really had it.

He lay beside her, feeling worse than before. Now he could be 
measured against another man. He'd never needed to think about 
that.

"Sorry," he said.

"Par for the course," she said.

"I guess he's better than me," he said, and wished he hadn't.

"Allan, they were all better than you," she said.

That stung. Christ. That stung like a face full of acid.

"They were all better because they wanted me," she said. "You 
haven't wanted me for years. I'm not positive you ever really 
wanted me at all."

No, he wanted to say. That could not be true. Could that be 
true? 

"Don't go to sleep," he said. "I won't let you sleep, because 
I need to hear the story about you and your lovers."

She groaned and rolled away from him. "Not tonight, Allan. I'm 
exhausted. I can't cope with this."

"Tonight," he insisted. "Now. You owe me for breaking my 
heart."

"You disguise it well," she said.

"Tell me about this Derek," he said doggedly. "Where did you 
meet him? What happened? I have to know."

"Derek occasionally sells his work through the craft centre," 
she said. "I admired his work. We got talking. He asked me to 
pose for him."

"To pose?"

"My breasts," she said. "He wanted to make my breasts." She 
laughed derisively. "They all want to make my breasts, one way 
or another. That's how it always happens."

"You posed for him? Just like that? You met, you talked, he 
asked you to pose, and you agreed? Just like that?"

"Pretty much. He said he wanted a model with a figure like a 
woman. So I said I would do it."

"You posed naked for him?"

"Not at first. At first, topless. It was my breasts he 
wanted."

"When did you know he wanted to fuck you?"

"Oh, I always knew," she said.

"So you always knew, from the first moment, that you would 
fuck him?"

She sighed condescendingly. She could do that. She'd had seven 
lovers and he'd only ever had her. "Yes, Allan. That's the way 
these things happen."

"You whore."

"Anyway, so that's how it happened. Can I go to sleep now?"

"Sleep? No. You've barely started. Did you fuck him that first 
time? Did he even bother to make a sculpture thing of you?"

"Yes, there's a sculpture. It's on display at the craft 
centre. It's a sculpture of my breasts."

"Really?" He found this amazing. "Does anyone know it's you?"

"Well, I haven't talked about it," she said. "But the work 
does have a title. It's called Caroline."

She rolled over and looked at him, taking her amusement from 
the look on his face. "Poor baby," she said. "All the things 
he doesn't know. Yes, Derek fucked me that first time."

"You couldn't wait."

"I couldn't wait."

"You loved it."

"I loved it."

"You whore."

He was surprised to find himself short of breath, and tight 
across the chest. "Until tonight I didn't know how much you 
hated me," he said.

"No, Allan. I don't hate you. But you don't bring me joy. I 
look at you and I see pain, I see grief, I see loss."

"Billy," he said.

"Billy," she said.

"It's been a long time since I said his name out loud."

"You look like Billy," she said. "He would have grown up 
looking just like you."

"Billy's dead," he said savagely. "Derek is not. We're talking 
about Derek."

"Derek's dead, too," she said. "Derek is over."

He turned his head and looked at her in surprise.

"I can't go on fucking Derek now that you know about it," she 
said.

"You decided this out of consideration for me?"

"Out of consideration for me. It's not fun if you know."

"Your lovers have been fun?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"Cheating on me has been fun?"

"Excellent fun."

"Why, Caroline? Is it because you think I deserve it?"

"Poor baby," she said. 

"You started this after Billy died, right?"

"Right."

"Who was first?"

"You want names, Allan? You want to be hurt that much?"

"I want everything."

"You'll be hurt, I warn you. You'll be badly hurt. It'll be 
better for you not to know."

"Caroline, I have to know."

She slipped out of bed, put on her nightgown, and started 
walking aimlessly around the room, gathering the threads of 
recollection. She'd thrown off her tiredness and appeared up, 
jaunty and animated, happy to be telling her story, eager to 
lay out her infidelities like a carpet salesman unfurling his 
wares.

"The first was Danny Holt," she said.

His shoulders slumped, as if he'd been hit on the head like 
abattoir kill. No. Danny Holt was one of his closest friends. 
Was, and still was. They'd had a quick hamburger lunch 
together three days ago and talked about engine transmissions.

"Danny always wanted me," she said. "From the day we met he 
never stopped asking, and one day I let it happen." She looked 
at him propped up on his pillows. "We fucked in that bed."

"In our bed? Oh, Caroline, you whore."

A series of quick images gnawed at him. Danny and Caroline 
grappling on the bed. Caroline, big breasts tumbling, shouting 
with pleasure, hands gripping at Danny's broad shoulders.

"We crazy-fucked for three days and two nights," she said. 
"You were away at that business course. It was like a dam 
bursting in me. Never knew anything like it."

He was good at calendars, dates, organisation, schedule. She 
wasn't.

"I only ever went away on one course, Caroline. It was well 
before Billy died."

"Was it?"

"It was."

"Oh, well, then. So I lied about when I started."

"What else are you lying about?"

"Shall I tell you, Allan? Shall I tell you the biggest lie, 
the doozy, the biggest hurt, the cruellest cut of all?"

Her eyes were bright, intense. She was in a state of near 
rapture. He said nothing and waited. Whatever he said, she 
would tell him anyway.

"You were the only virgin on our wedding night," she said. 
"You wanted so much for it to be that way. I faked it, cheated 
you, and it was easy because you knew nothing."

She resumed her pacing, rubbing her hands together in nervous 
energy. "I fucked Garry Swann before we got married. I 
couldn't stop him. I didn't want to stop him."

He remembered Garry Swann, vaguely. He was a mechanic, a bit 
older. He wasn't at the wedding.

"We were sweethearts but you were always sweeter than I was," 
she said. "I would have gone all the way with you plenty of 
times but you always stopped. You wanted to wait to be 
married. I went out with Garry Swann one night, secretly. I 
knew he wanted to fuck me. He had been telling me that for 
ages. Gary Swann fucked me that night in the long grass in the 
park down the road. I fucked him four more times, the last 
time in the week we got married."

She stopped and fixed her gaze on him. "So you can bump up the 
list of my lovers to eight," she said. "Garry Swann was the 
first time I betrayed you. Danny Holt was the next. Danny 
wanted me but he was full of guilt afterwards, after that 
crazy weekend. That's all there was with Danny. It never 
happened again."

The hurt had run together for him in a molten flow of lava. He 
couldn't believe there was so much she still had to tell him. 
Three lovers down, five to go.

"The rest of them happened after Billy," she said. "That's 
true. No lies. No more lies. I'll tell you everything."

"You are enjoying it too much not to tell me everything," he 
observed bitterly.

"That's true," she said. "This is the most fun I've had with 
you in years."

There was malice in her glee, and glee in her malice. She 
needed to hurt him because of Billy. Sure, he could see that, 
even understand it. But it went further. There was more to her 
than that.

"One more thing about Garry Swann," she said. "I never fucked 
him after we were married, but I did see him. Just once. He 
made me do something I never forgot. I think about it now and 
I shiver."

She sidled up to the bed conspiratorially. "You want to know 
what happened? It was just after we got back from that awful 
little honeymoon. We'd been married about two weeks."

He didn't bother to answer her.

"He called me on the telephone and asked me to go to his work 
and see him. I did. He took me into a tool room and locked the 
door. He told me to take off all my clothes. I did."

Her eyes were looking over his head, looking far away, 
remembering.

"I thought he was going to fuck me. I would have let him, too. 
I could never help myself with Garry Swann. He was such an 
animal."

She had a hand smoothing over one breast caressingly, and he 
wasn't sure she knew she was doing it in front of him. Maybe 
she did. He could see the nipple pushing out the cloth of the 
gown.

"He made me kneel down on the concrete floor in front of him. 
He unzipped and pulled out his floppy big cock. Garry Swann 
had the biggest cock of all my lovers. Jim O'Brien had a 
pretty big one but not as big as Garry Swann."

Jim O'Brien. Another man he knew well and thought he liked. 
Christ, that hurt.

"You know what he did? I was kneeling on that filthy concrete 
floor, naked, and he pissed on me. Urinated. All over me. My 
face, my body, my hair, everywhere."

She had a grim smile on her face, remembering.

"That's for getting married, he said to me. Then he told me to 
get dressed and go home to cook your dinner."

The hand was stroking at her breast, curving up and over.

"I've never been more disgusted in my whole life. Also, 
because tonight I'm telling the truth, never more excited. I 
went home and sat in the shower stall to get clean, and I 
frigged myself near to death."

She sighed and turned away, resuming her pacing.

"Poor baby," she said. "You don't know these things about me. 
You've never even come near to guessing. Some men seem to know 
straight away. They look at me and they see right inside to 
the dark corners and crevices. I would have died and gone to 
heaven happy if all my lovers had pissed on me like Garry 
Swann, but they never did and I was never brave enough to ask. 
I wonder what happened to Garry Swann? Maybe I should try to 
look him up."

"You whore," he said, but so softly she wouldn't have heard.

"Let's face it, Allan. Sex between you and me has never been 
all that hot. Most of the instigation has come from me, right 
from the outset. Jesus, that honeymoon. It was like fetching 
water from a dry well. I could have taught you things but I 
had to act like a virgin. If I'd started out teaching, you 
would have known I learned it somewhere. And I did. I learned 
it from Garry Swann."

Had it been that bad? His memories of that time were all 
sweet. Awkward, admittedly, but sweet.

"I suppose you must have initiated sex with me some time or 
other," she mused. "But I just can't remember it."

"We've reached the end of Danny Holt," he reminded her.

"Yes, yes, Danny Holt," she said. "Lots of go in Danny but too 
much guilt. He's still guilty, all these years later. He 
practically faints every time I talk to him. The next after 
Danny was that guy with the funny name, Oswald. I never knew 
his last name."

He was sure he'd never known an Oswald.

"Yes, Oswald," she said, anticipating him. "He did all the 
paving out the back."

Oh, yeah. That sullen, Neanderthal brute. Took ages to do that 
job. Now he knew why.

"Oswald picked me right away," she said. "He practised rape 
with his eyes. I tried to avoid him, but he cornered me in the 
kitchen. He grabbed me and I was scared. But once he had my 
breasts out in the open air he was no trouble at all. Oswald 
was totally obsessed with my breasts. When it was just him and 
me in the house I had to go topless. Oswald showed me tit 
fucking. You know about tit fucking, Allan? It's messy and a 
bit weird, but Oswald swore by it. He said I was the tit-fuck 
queen of the universe."

"Only a whore would take that as a compliment," he said. "I've 
heard more than enough about this cretin. Who next?"

"Next was Peter McKinney."

Good Christ. McKinney was their neighbour. He had to be 
getting close to fifty.

"You remember when his wife left him?" she asked. "Peter was 
devastated. It was more or less a mercy fuck when I first went 
to bed with him."

"Jesus, Caroline, you're not only a whore, you're a stupid 
whore. That was McKinney's second wife. He's now got a third."

"Yes, well, between wife two and wife three he was really 
broken up. You feel sorry for a man, you comfort him, and then 
you suddenly find yourself sleeping with him. You have to 
sleep with a man who cries. It's the only way to stop him."

"I can't believe how corny and seedy this is," he muttered.

"You can believe it, all right," she said. "I fucked Peter for 
nearly a year, on and off. It was an occasional thing. Nothing 
dramatic. He was quite a good lover, though. Very patient and 
considerate. He knows a lot about women and what they like. I 
spent a lot of hours in Peter's bed and never regretted a 
minute."

"Caroline, you don't regret anything, do you? Have you no 
guilt at all?"

"No," she said. "Not really. I guess I'm just lucky like 
that."

"Who next?"

"After Peter but also at the same time was Jim O'Brien."

"I like Jim," he said. "I think I like him better than I like 
you. I always thought of Jim as my friend."

"Oh, Jim's all right," she said dismissively. "He's still your 
friend. He only fucked me once, and that was because I jumped 
him. It was at a party at Danny Holt's place. You were there 
with me. I was dancing with Jim and this big hard thing was 
poking me in the stomach. I asked him how big it was and he 
said I should find out. He got the shock of his life when I 
took his hand and pulled him out into the garden. Poor Jim 
didn't stand a chance. He fucked me against the wall of Danny 
Holt's potting shed."

"That's nice," he said bitterly. "Good old Jim, who didn't 
know the gun was loaded. Well, that's okay, then. Yes, good 
old Jim, my friend. Well, we'll see about that."

"Then there was Grady Smith."

"Who is Grady Smith?" he asked. "I never heard of him."

"I met him at the supermarket. Just bumped into him. We got 
talking. Grady was a great looking guy, very smooth, very 
charming, a real womaniser. He could talk a woman's pants off 
just like that. He was the sort of man who can make a woman 
feel warm and fuzzy, vaguely silly, and completely helpless."

"When did you sleep with him?"

"Oh, hell, right away. I went back to his place with him 
straight from the supermarket. I was hooked on the first cast. 
Oh, hell, yes. Grady had my knickers off in a flash. If he'd 
wanted to fuck me in the car park I'm sure I would have."

He shook his head. "You whore."

"Grady was not so good in bed," she said. "It took a while to 
realise that, because he bowled a girl over with his charm. 
But there's only so often you can be charmed before you start 
looking at performance, and Grady couldn't live up to his 
looks and his manners. In fact he was a bit of a dud, dear 
sweet Grady, but I fucked him for six months before I said so 
long, goodbye. Of course, by then I was fucking Terry Cooper, 
and he was damn good at it."

"Cooper. I've met Cooper. Isn't he at the craft centre?"

"He's the boss, Allan. How do you think I got the job so 
easily?"

"So you were fucking Cooper before you started at the craft 
centre?"

"It was simultaneous. I went for the job interview and we went 
to lunch and then we wound up in bed."

"You fucked him to get the job? Jesus, you really are a 
whore."

"Not exactly. I got drunk and horny and he got drunk and 
horny. But it certainly clinched the interview."

"I'm remembering Cooper," he sneered. "He's an old fart with a 
bald head, a grey beard, and a thick waist. Not exactly Brad 
Pitt, is he?"

"But he's a horny old fart," she said. "Golly gee, the number 
of times in those first few weeks I got bent over his desk and 
roundly rogered."

"You disgust me, you whore."

"It was quite dirty," she agreed cheerfully.

"You fuck him to keep your job."

"Only occasionally now. He's not around the centre so much 
since he took over the administration of the council gallery."

"And finally there's Derek, the oh-so-talented sculptor," he 
said.

"Yes, Derek. I'll go see Derek on Monday and tell him it's 
over. Pity. Derek is good, the second best ever. Garry Swann 
was the best, and there'll never be another Garry Swann."

"You can bet your falling udders on that, dear," he said. 
"Only the middle-aged and the desperate for you now."

She met his eyes with a flinty gaze. "Oh, I don't know about 
that," she said. "Who knows who will turn up next?"

"So that's all? No more? That's the full list? None you 
haven't told me about?"

"That's all. Well, that's all in terms of fucking. I mean, if 
you want to include kissing, necking, groping, stinky fingers, 
and the odd quick blowjob, it's a bigger list than that."

"You whore."

"You want me to tell you who got blowjobs? Some of them you 
know."

"No, thanks. I've heard enough."

"Sure about that? I mean, there's Tom Porter, Barry Whittaker, 
Bob Kendrick -- you said you wanted details."

"Stop, Caroline. Enough."

"Well, what about guys who've played with my tits? Now that's 
a long list, going right back. We can go back to high school 
for that."

"No. I'll pass." 

"Poor baby. You've been one hundred per cent faithful, haven't 
you? Not even a peck on the cheek in a dark room."

He didn't answer.

"Poor baby," she said. "What will you do now?"

It had been coming together in his mind as she told her tale 
of betrayal.

"My first thought was to strangle you and bury your body in 
the swamp," he said. "But it's too obvious. I'd get caught, 
eventually, and I don't plan to spend the rest of my life in 
prison.

"I've decided I will do nothing. You will go on as you are 
because that's what you are and what you've always been, I now 
discover. I will move into another bedroom. I don't want you, 
Caroline. I don't want your floppy tits and your well-
travelled cunt. You disgust me and I don't want to be in your 
bed.

"We should stay together, though, and extend the farce at 
least until Jennifer grows up and leaves home. She's our 
child. We owe her that much.

"You can do what you like, Caroline. I can't stop you. I won't 
ask and don't tell me. I don't want to know any more. I've 
heard enough to last me a lifetime.

"I'm not interested in revenge, but I'll get it inevitably. 
You're getting older, Caroline. You're rushing up on thirty, 
and those honeypot big tits are on their way down to the 
bottom of your belly. You'll still get your men, but they 
won't be smooth or charming any more. You'll be another 
desperate and panicky old boiler, well past your use-by date. 
You'll look exactly like the tattered, worn-out slut you 
really are."

The lopsided rueful smile was back on her face. "Is that it?" 
she asked. "Eleven years of cheating, and that's all there is? 
It's the best you can do?" She laughed out loud. "Garry Swann 
warned me you were a wimp. I should have listened to him."

She stretched her arms, pulling her breasts up. "Can I come to 
bed now? I'm really tired. I want to go to sleep."

He rolled off the bed, snatched up a blanket, and went to sit 
on the wide sill of the bay window. "Turn the light out, 
Caroline," he said. "That bed has had too many visitors for my 
taste. From now on, it's all yours."

He waited at the window for the dawn. Caroline slept, or she 
appeared to. She'd never had trouble sleeping. She seemed to 
carry no guilt.

In a couple of hours he'd make a telephone call. The stories 
of the long, cold night had brought into sharp focus some 
issues that had been too fuzzy and frightening for too long. 
Caroline had done that much for him. She'd forced him to the 
truth.

He'd ring George and tell him he was coming over to spend the 
Sunday with him. They'd head off to softball together and he 
wouldn't come home. Maybe he'd stay away Sunday night, too. 
Let it fall where it may.

He'd resisted George's advances, but only because he was 
scared and confused. No longer. It was time to come out.

ENDS  

Edited by Ruthie and Nat.

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
neilanthony@austarnet.com.au

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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