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The figure took a seat in his arm chair that was a few feet away. "That's a nice view you got there." She said in and easy, soft knowing tone. He stared long and hard at her, without speaking he put his hammer and screw driver down. She started to speak. "You know; you do not have to open every package that is dropped off on your door step." Her voice had a matriarchal tone that he remembered from his childhood. She was the kind of lady that would allow you to make your mistakes but she would not allow you to hurt yourself in the process. He stopped sat on the edge of the crate and listen to what she had to say. He loved to hear her speak. Her voice, he thought "must sound as an angels' voice. Yes defiantly angels living among us. That's what she is." She looked him squarely in the face, and he knew that look the look of utter determination, the look of her saying without words that she must get through to him. And she felt as though she must. It was of dyer essence that he listens. And while she had always preferred being fucked face to face, she let me turn her over sometimes and do it doggy-style. Of course I would think about Tom at moments like these. But if she was suspicious of me -- the sudden increase in ass play, the longer hours I spent online or the more time I gave to messing with the phone -- she didn’t show it. Once or twice, after a rousing bit of sex, she’d ask me, “What’s gotten into you?” I never had a good answer for that, but she didn’t seem to mind. Then one night, a Thursday, the day before my weekly visit to Tom’s, I came home to find her alone, red-eyed and staring out the window. She was smoking, a habit she had given up almost totally when we got married and reverted to only when she was greatly upset. Before I could ask what was wrong or where the kids were, she spoke. “Whatever it is you’re getting on the side, I want you to stop it, now,” she said. Stunned, I took a moment too long to answer. “I don’t know what -- ’’ “.
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