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Unformatted text preview: y molded. A mouth had to be that way to hold its own beneath the dark glossy mustache, above the curling close-cut locks of the beard. She turned away as he bent down. His warm fingers wound around her upper arms, and his lips grazed her cheek. He touched her breasts with his large hand, rubbing the nipples, and the unwelcome sensation ran through her. No dream. His hands. She could have lost conscious- ness to shut it out. But she was there, helpless, and she couldn't stop it or get away. It was as degrading as anything else to feel this sudden utter joy that he was here, to kindle beneath his fingers as if he were a lover, not a LASHER jailer, to rise out of her isolation towards any kindness or gentleness proffered by the captor in a swoon. "My darling, my darling." He rested his head on her belly, nuzzled his face into the skin, oblivious to the filth of the bed, humming, whispering, and then he gave off a loud cry, and drawing up began to dance, round and round, a jig with one leg lifted, singing and clapping his hand...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10