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Head back, Laura slipped her middle finger between her folds and sighed. Her release valve pushed, life's strains vanished. Right then Laura knew she could not stop.Scooching forward on the bench, she spread her knees and slid her finger in deeper. In a bit, out a bit, her middle knuckle was momentarily satisfying, like the first bite of an ice cream sundae. Her hand in place, she rubbed her thickening button with the very tip of her thumb. The tingle arced and exploded like a starburst on the 4th of July. An aftershock shudder followed. She settled into a rhythm, her head lolling from side to side. A gasp escaped her lips unnoticed.With her free hand, Laura alternately massaged and pinched her left nipple and became part of the stimulating beat. The rhythm was delightful and hypnotic and sucking her in toward the vortex of an incredible orgasm. Three more times, four more times, and she let out a low groan. She fantasized about flinging her towel away—out of reach—preventing her from. Any deviation from my routine, any unexpected interference caused me to miss my evening meal or become agitated. Dan learned not to include me in evening plans if he wanted to take mom out to dinner or to the movies. My mom was coping with her loss much better, but she also had been prescribed anti-depressants since the wreck. Dan couldn’t understand why she still needed to take them, when she had him to ease the pain. He resented her need to take the pills, assuming it meant she still ached for her dead husband. Truth is, she still did feel the pain of loss every day, but she did a good job of being a dutiful wife and mother, never talking about her own needs. By the time I joined the varsity track team, in my sophomore year, I was one of the top cross country runners my district. I was skinny as a rail, but I could run. My dosage of meds had stabilized and I had adapted fairly well. Then, without warning, another change came. I didn’t do well with change in those days. My mother.
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