Britney's stomach twisted as she cut across the grass. They never left their garage open. Her slippers whisked across the pebbly driveway. She almost ...lipped on the smooth cement floor of the garage. The door leading into the house was also open.This is so dumb.Britney pressed forward, stepping into the house. “Hello?” she asked.“Britney?” the pained voice of Mr. D'Angelo called.“Yes,” she shouted. “Where are you?”“Bedroom.” His voice was hoarse. “Hurry.”Britney sprang into action, her slippers. Yes you can says the milker, and in the same breath, leans in towards her body, layed down against the table, and reaches beneath her grabbing at her chest. He folds down the cups of her corset and reaches for a tin cup which he sets on the table. Realising what he wants, needing his silence, and in the midst of errupting at her core, the farmers wife raised her chest of the table to give him access to her breasts, which he milked (unknown to her) just like he had milked her daughters earlier. The small places that sheltered the hidden things, the creeping things, the shy things. Things that no man wished to behold maybe. Or things that all men coveted perhaps. But no one could know, for the cracks and the crevices in the stone and the rock kept their own counsel, and the wind’s voice, shrieking whistle-whisper that it was, never could find the words to express the visions it beheld. The sun was a white-hot ball of fire plunging down to clip the edge of the world. It collided with. You may stand, warrior. I am not my mother. I care little for such formalities. As the tired warrior climbed to his feet, the candle behind them guttered, as if disturbed by some sudden and sharp wind, then steadied again. The young noblewoman gazed upon him now in his full height, and seemed suddenly wrong-footed by his stature. He was close against her and, standing now, towered over her. She was a slim and slender thing, dainty and pretty, barely more than a teenager, and with the coltish.
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