“Just tell me what you want,” she’d said, her reddened face beside mine on the pillow after I felt the tension and spasm in her thighs, the buck...ng of her against my mouth, the pull of her hand in my hair driving me into her, dictating the rhythm and roughness she wanted. I’d felt terribly afraid of her then, afraid of being open, of being selfish, of telling her what I wanted, of admitting it to her, admitting it to myself. No-one had ever asked me that before. They’d asked me if I liked. My eyes wandered along the shelves of wine, as I was reading the back of a bottle she came from behind the counter and started rearranging items. "Do you get bored being in here all night?" "Yes. But no one else will do it" She paused for a moment then said "I like to read stories, it passes the time" "What kind of stories do you like? "I like the old stories from my country, they're exciting" "Fantasy stories of handsome princes and romantic encounters, that sort of thing?" I replied She. More

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