I turned again to my book but my mind was filled with thoughts that were a far cry from George Eliot's 'Middlemarch'.Aunt Ellen that night, had shaken...me to the core with her emphatic declaration that I must find somebody other than her.'You see, Simon, you can't spend your life moping around, wishing you were up here with me and neglecting your studies.' She moved closer in the bed and snuggled into me, her thigh across me, warm and soft. I lay on my back, filled with dejection, and the. She moaned again and again. I couldn't get enough. But that was in the past. I also asked:"Does anybody say how beautiful your lips are?"She's heard it before. She has heard it all before. "How kissable?" How juicy?" Yeah," she replied. "And I hate it."And I hated that response. But no matter what, It came to one request that night. It was one question that I couldn’t hold to suppress..."Can you lick your lips for me?"And she did. She was one of a kind to me. She was special to me. She was. More

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