“None of your business who, you damned owl!” the little girl hissed into the night.The next sound she heard was one she knew well: Paul Macon’s ...aughter. The nine year old boy, dressed in black with his T-shirt pulled up over his face and the brim of his cap pulled low, emerged from the shadows not sixteen feet (five metres) from her.“I thought I saw something move,” he told her as they met, “but I wasn’t sure it was you.”A moment of whispered discussion and they settled on the banyan tree. And her still perky tits were heaving up as she breathed heavily in and out. I knew that behavior. She was getting off on the story.Finally, Mom told me to get my ass to bed. And she walked up the stairs with Wynter, still hugging her, and putting her to bed. She had completed the ream job of my behavior during our long talk. But she hadn't forgotten, and she was making sure Wynter was okay and in her own separate room. We all slept in late that Sunday morning.When I awoke about ten in the. More

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