She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun.
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