”Belinda giggled.“They don’t get respect. They get pawed.”“Not by me, Belinda.”“Why not? You’re different, Alan. We’ve been speaking...for a few minutes and except when I nearly pushed them in your face, you’ve been talking to my face, not my breasts. Don’t you like them?”The phone rang before I could answer. I dealt with the caller who only wanted to know the company’s postal address. Belinda answered another call and took a personal message for the notice board. There were several more phone. I had called home around 6:30 to let my wife Miranda know not to hold dinner for me. There had been too many "held" dinners as it was, with Tupperware dishes filling the refrigerator from late evening phone calls of delay. I had begun to wonder if the high-paying job was even worth it. How long had it been since Miranda and I had even made love? Weeks at least. Though I did smile the last time I remembered we'd had a particularly erotic and wild session together. Discussing fantasies, even if. More

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