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wild coca. His life as a rural urchin
would have continued uninterrupted had he not stumbled upon the remains of a
Commodore VIC-20, and some barely functional word processing software. He now
lives the life of an ego-starved dabbler in the writing arts, forever craving
feedback like some sort of cheap, pathetic e-mail ho.
The author can be reached at: gdnikoli@descartes.uwaterloo.ca
Thank you.
--
One leg at a time, I eased out of the pantyhose and dropped them
on the bed. He picked them up, stretched them a few times, and
said "I'll bet these would make pretty decent ropes."
There was a strange note in his voice that I'd never heard
before. I continued to undress, dropping my bra to the floor, and
answered carefully, "Probably. After all, don't stranglers use
them?"
He stretched one nylon leg over his hand and stood behind me. He
didn't say anything, just nibbled on my neck and ran the silky
yet rough nylon across my nipples. They shriveled into erect
knobs almost instantly. I reached my arms back, knotted my
fingers in his hair.
"Why do you ask?"
"Ask what," he said, trying to sound innocent.
"About ropes."
"Oh, just thinking." He sounded distracted, probably because his
teeth were idly scraping the underside of my chin and his
nylon-sheathed hands were lightly stroki
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