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Something.Her arm fell to the side of the chair, clutching a small, leather-bound book, my heart rate rising as I started.'She's reading,' I thought before I noticed the pen clutched tight to the book by her thumb. 'No, she's writing... A diary?' I could just make out the handwritten words scrawled in blue ink across the plain, expensive paper. Her arm returned behind the chair. Olga's moans turned to sighs before the scratch of pen on paper filled the room. Soon, the scratchings silenced, replaced by a raucous roar of need and a single, whimpered word: my name.'I must be hearing things,' I thought as the diary dropped onto the floor beside the chair; then I heard it again. A deep, staccato breath was drawn, fuelling another pleasure-driven groan to ring out, culminating in my name falling from her exhausted lips.I knelt and peered at the diary on the floor. It lay open on an older record. The handwriting began neatly but became more hastily scrawled, lengthening and elongating as it. "I could feel myself blush, and a silly grin appear on my face."Ah, well, ah...." - there was really nothing I could say. "Youlook like the little boy who got caught with his hand in thecookie jar," she laughed. "Come on, let's have something to eat,then we can do some shopping later."I think we were both eager to get back to the mail, and wequickly ate a light dinner. Joanne added a huge J.C. Penneycatalog to the pile, and for the next couple of hours, we did theshop-at-home thing, selecting and ordering a bunch of things,like kids in a candy store. The prospect of receiving my newthings made a Christmas-like anticipation buzz around in my head.When we went upstairs to bed, I confessed this to Joanne, and sheadmitted that she felt the same way. She almost shyly offered tolend me a nightgown to wear to bed, and, putting on the pantiesthat I had worn Saturday night, slipped into a frilly pinkgown. The excitement I felt peaked at that point, and we soonfound ourselves making love. The.
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