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We both shrugged off dessert but agreed to some coffee. Holly sat back and held a packet of sweetener over the hot black coffee that steamed in her little white porcelain cup. I watched the white powder drift down and instantly dissolve in the black liquid. Slowly I realized that Holly was talking. My eyes lifted a little and stopped. There, only three feet away were the tops of her breasts. Her cleavage was exquisite. She was wearing the silver locket I had given her on our tenth anniversary; it sat atop the cleft between her large breasts. A few weeks ago I could have reached across the table and held that locket in my hand. Now, that distance was an unfathomable abyss. I looked up and saw that Holly's lips were moving. She was still talking but I hadn't heard a single word. The woman sitting across from me was not Jake's mother. She wasn't my wife of over twenty years. She was a lean, self determined mature woman as ripe as an August peach. Damn, I could barely keep my hands on. At most, thirty minutes had passed since I had shut my eyes. For a moment I held my breath and listened, seeking the source of my unease. I could still smell the musk in the air from the delicious creature on my left – a musk now well mixed with the smell of slowly drying semen that wafted from my sleeping bag. Thankfully Lisa was asleep and the smell would be gone in the morning. I pulled my hands upward from my sides, breaking a thin, slick crust of partially dried semen where my cum-stained fingers had bonded to the natural fibre of the sleeping bag, and crossed my hands defensively on my chest. I felt a chill. My eyes scanned the interior of the tent for any minute sign of that which had disturbed my sleep. Save the mating crickets outside the tent, all was calm. My mind ran a quiet checklist of that which I knew to be true. The fire was gutted. No sparks had spread to the fabric of the tent. The moonlight, now more powerful than the dim light of the fire, gave a dim luminescence.
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