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”“What about my husband?” she teased, still giggling. “He can watch if he wants. I’m not shy!” the voice replied. My dick was about to bus... out of my pants as we walked around the trees. The guy was leaning against the backside of a large tree. His hands were at his sides, his fly was open and what looked like a foot of thick black cock out like a flagpole. The only words spoken were a barely audible, “Oh my God!” from Diane, and a “Holy shit,” from me as we both were mesmerized by this guys. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust himself back into my life. Long enough for the wound to be torn farther to add bacteria to the contaminated flesh. I sit in the shower for hours crying the water that consumes me, wrinkles my fingerprints, and pinks my skin beyond the soft white naivety that it normally blushes. Cleaning doesn’t help. Much. I am no nurse though the shower, as such, is my hospital. Perhaps I should let them be. Scars heal over when left alone. Sometimes. More

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