pig

Just sometimes the word pig.

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Copyright © 2008, Michael M Wayman

I had just finished putting the groceries into the back of the car and turned to go, when, I mean, it happened, there she was, I mean, she was there.

She stopped, I walked towards her, she walked to me, I stared at her, she stared at me. I can't say whether she was pretty or ugly, but she was covered in freckles, even her toes and her fingers had freckles. She looked as if she would be pregnant for the whole of her life. She was bigger than me, really big, and blond.

pig of bread

I had no choice. I told her what I wanted to do to her, in every little detail. I stared at her. She stared at me. I expected her to hit me, shout at me, walk away. I stared at her. She stared at me. She told me a lot too.

She spoke in some language I don't know, perhaps Scandinavian.

I understood nothing, just sometimes the word pig and once or twice the word pig.

Did she think that I was a pig or behaved like a pig? Did she want to eat pig? I don't know. I had to listen, I had no choice.

I stared at her. She stared at me. What now? She said pig and shoved her hand in the back of my trousers and marched me to my car. I opened the door. She pushed me in. I had no choice. She slammed the door. She walked to the other side and got in.

I drove to my place. She helped me carry the groceries to the kitchen and store them in the right place – she knew where.

She said pig and shoved her hand in the back of my trousers and marched me down the corridor to my bedroom – she knew where.

She threw me face down on the bed. I had no choice. She did what she liked with me. She needed a lot of time to do that.

She used the word pig very often – it was the only word she used.

Sometimes pig and twice pig.

Finally she said pig, she was happy, she rested her head on me, and I went to sleep.



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