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" Shh," you cut me off pressing a finger to my lips while rubbing my crotch through my jeans with your other hand.You move in closer pressing your naked body into mine, grabbing my head in your hands and kissing me hard. I reach my arms around you in an attempt to feel your wonderful body in my hands only to have you brush me aside "Not yet... you are mine..."You continue kissing my mouth, face and neck feverishly as you hand begin exploring my body. I feel helpless but like it... I am getting more and more turned on with every touch of your mouth on my neck. I feel your hands move down and quickly unbutton my jeans and I let out a barely audible sigh as the pressure that was building is released.Your hands then slowly move up and begin to unbutton my shirt, working your way up then sliding it off my shoulders. You move in close and I can feel the warmth of your body against mine, your hard nipples pressed into my chest as you begin kissing my body working your way from my neck down. As she walked up to her building she saw that the man was still there.“What’s your name?” she asked.“Tom. Why do you want to know?”She hunkered down in front of him. “I want to help you. I bought you some clothes and I want you to come with me. You can shower and I’ll make you something to eat.”He looked at her with suspicion. “What’s in it for you?”“Nothing, I just want to help.”“Will you call the cops while I shower? Maybe tell them a story how I broke into your apartment?”She laughed. “No, nothing like that. I just knew someone who ended up like you and I don’t want you to end up the same as him.”“Who was it and what happened.”“My uncle and he died.”“Sorry.”“C’mon, you can tell me your story over lunch.”He gave her a grin. “You wouldn’t believe me.”Tom looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Cindy had given him a scissors and suggested he cut his hair and beard. The dirt was like a second skin on his face and body. He had lost a lot of weight over the years and what once had.
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Pat nestled in her husband’s lap in the big chair facing us. I don’t doubt that my eyes grew misty and far away. I wasn’t seeing the room, but rather the soft rolling green hills and dales of Ireland. I knew that the faint traces that remained of my Irish accent grew stronger the longer I talked. ************ I was born the eighth and final child to my parents, Michael and Mary O’Brien. Five brothers and two sisters all towered above me in my childhood. My father owned and operated the local combination inn and tavern, with of course, the assistance, advice and direction of my mother. Along with my siblings, I worked there from the time I was old enough to help. I started mopping the flagstone floor, washing dishes, and finally graduated to serving drinks and food. Generally I didn’t have to think twice about the customers. After all, with the exception of a traveling bard or tinker and the very rare patrol of English soldiery, our village was generally left to us. An uneasy peace.

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