Prologue:
❦
"This is the story of my life," she said.
The girl read the book, even though she wasn't supposed to. She could tell right away that it wasn't the kind of
books a child should be reading. Children her age couldn't read, and here she'd been doing it for years.
Children's books were boring, although she did have a soft spot for the Golden Book, The Little Engine That
Could. Apparently this was a classic. At least it's the one story that all the adults seemed to remember from
childhood. She preferred Kipling, or something about science and the future. She didn't know the genre was called
Sci-fi, or science fiction. She just knew that she loved it.
She could get away with reading it, no one in the house understood it anyway. She'd tried asking her parents
what a quark was, and they'd yelled at her for making up words. After that, she learned to understand the harder
words by using them in context.
She didn't know she was doing it, of course. She was only 6.
Now THIS book? No way could they catch her reading this. Not that it would make her stop. the story was
good, and the illustrations were beautiful. The fact that it was about a woman who ran a whorehouse? Well, now
she knew what a whore house WAS. Add that fact to her education. And it seemed like a hard job too, but a good
one if you did it right.
She made sure the covers were securely over her and the very large book, turned on the flashlight and continued
reading.
Prologue 2:
❦
"Then cometh Jesus with them unto a place called Gethsemane,
saith unto the disciples, Sit ye here, while I go and pray yonder. And
he took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be
sorrowful and very heavy. Then he saith unto them, My soul is
exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with
me. And he went a little further, and fell on his face, and prayed,
saying, O ,my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me:
nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." - Matthew 26: 36 - 39,
Holy Bible, King James Version
"This is the story of my life, she said. If you didn't understand that it was about the life I've lived and the
people I loved then I got it all wrong." She grew quiet for a minute, reflecting on this. "I hate to say it, but
know I know how Jesus felt in the garden at Gethsemanes." She paused, looking at her glass, then raised it to
her lips. She shook her head sadly, and sighed deeply. She shrugged and drank what was left in her cup.
The man sitting in her wheelchair reflected on this.
Now you have to understand that she had a disease. It was painful and kept her from living a life she wanted to
live. She needed a wheelchair to travel, but at home she was able to walk from room to room, most of the time. For
her to give up her wheelchair to a man who didn't have one, but most surely DID need one, was an act of love on
her part. She needed surgery that, odds are, wasn't going to come out well. To sit in any other chair was very
painful, and she couldn't do it for long. She would have to get up, wandering the house to keep her mind distracted
from the pain she lived with all the time. When the pain grew worse, she went back to the other room, and sat on
the uncomfortable chair, and listened to a movie with her best friend.
"How YOU doing," she asked in an Italian accent. Her friend smiled and chuckled a little. "I'm okay," he said.
She looked at him, seeming to look past him for a second. When her eyes unglazed, she said, "Go to bed, hun.
You're tired."
"No, I wanna finish watching this movie." He hadn't been watching the movie for ten minutes. He was lost in
his own dimensions, and he was as tired as hell. "C'mon," she said getting up herself. "I'll tell you a bedtime story."
She took him by the hand and led him into the Persian Room.
The room looked nothing like anything you'd find in Persia. It was a simple room, but fascinating to the male
mind. A large bed in the middle of the room. Blankets and pillows piled high, but not in a girly way. Everything
was mismatched, but comfortable enough. The room was lived in, and comfortable. It was called it Persian Room,
because when you were in there, you were expected to behave like Persian Royalty. Only the very important people
in her life ever made it into her bedroom, all others were kept in other parts of the house. There were things on the
shelves to glance at. You didn't want to be caught staring, that would be rude, but surely it was o.k. to peek?
Bottle of Barcardi, half gone. Oil warmer, lit. Vanilla Lavender oil scenting the room. There was a smell of
something else too, what was it? No one could ever place the smell in her house. It wasn't bad, it was just...
different. Like her.
She had purified the room earlier with sage and St. John's Wort. (Her first wedding had been held on St. John's
Day, and when she had lost a baby, she had named him John. Very few people knew this about her. She didn't talk
about it much.)
There was usually candy of some kind. Tootsie Rolls, lollipops, hard candies. Always something. Cough drops
too if you happened to have a cold. Help yourself.
She had two suitcases, already packed with no explanation as to what they might hold. Those who knew, knew
what was in them and even though it seemed a little silly, it was her business and no one else's.
She had boxes of yarn and crafting stuff. Even if she had tried to explain what she was doing, it wouldn't matter.
It was calming just watching her work, her hands moving, creating something out of nothing but string. She'd
sometimes hold it up and look at it. A teddy bear. A baby bootie for someone's newborn. Occasionally, a bra and
thong set she'd made over the course of an hour. She'd model it, and take pictures of her wearing it, and if you were
really good, she'd send them to your cell phone during the day to cheer you up.
Books. Everywhere. Crafting, cooking, science fiction, children's books. She had a small collection of books
signed by the authors, and she treasured these. She claimed to have ten thousand books in her laptop, but they
couldn't imagine ever having so many of them. You could almost always find her reading something, usually on her
e-reader. You'd hate to disturb her, she really enjoyed reading the way some people enjoy video games, but she'd
put it down and engage you in conversation every so often not to be rude.
Video games, politics, conspiracy theories... you name it. If there was a topic you were passionate about, she
could talk about it.
There was a shelf with her perfumes. Never expensive, but all very good. There were some bottles that had no
names on them. She had mixed these herself. As he took off his clothes and got into the bed, she stripped as he
watched her. She seemed not to care, but could feel his eyes on her. "Mind if I use one of MY favorites tonight?"
"No, go ahead," he said graciously. She laughed to herself a little and poured the oil into her hands. She rubbed
them together and ran them over her body, down her legs, back up, over her breasts... she rubbed the oil into every
sensitive spot, and ending with running the last of the oil through her hair.
He watched with appreciation. "Damn, girl," he growled.
"Oh stop," she laughed. "That was just me putting on my perfume. Getting all girly for you." She picked up a
vial of clear liquid and rubbed a little on her lips. He watched her run her fingers slowly over her lips, then taking a
few drops from the vial, she flavored her nipples with the thick liquid.
"Mmmmm," he growled. "What flavor is that tonight?"
"Vanilla Ice cream, you like?"
"Yeah. I like."
She walked over to the bed and slithered in, crawling across the bed instead of just getting in. She curled her
body around his, and laid her head on his chest. He looked down at her and said, "Give me a kiss."
She giggled and blushed like a school girl, but dutifully lifted her face to his. He kissed her lightly, then again.
Longer, deeper, he slid his tongue past her lips to meet hers. She playfully bit at his lower lip, and let go. He kissed
her deeper then, his hands traveling over her and finding what pleased them.
"I love the way you taste," he said, and he moved his body into a better position to suckle on her breasts.
Licking and sucking lightly, he savored the smell and the taste of her. It was always something, good or sweet,
almost something from childhood.
"I'm glad. Now kiss me again."
"He slid back up and took her in his arms. He buried his face in her hair, loving the soft, smooth feel of it
against his face. He nuzzled her neck and she purred for him. He decided to stay there for awhile longer.
She reached down and began stroking his balls, feeling them jump at her touch. She cupped and lightly
massaged them, and he growled. "Oh that's so relaxing," he sighed. She ran her nails over them and his body
tightened. "Ahh yes..."
She rubbed her cheek against his face as if she were a cat. He buried himself deeper into her hair, her neck,
breathing heavily. "Turn around and I'll do your back."
Quickly, he rolled over, and she wrapped her body around him again. Using the same techniques, she massaged
his back until his body seemed to sink into the mattress. She stopped and cuddled against him, pressing her large,
soft breasts into his back, her breath warm on his neck. He was so relaxed, and so warm, and...
His breathing grew softer and more regular. She lay there a few more minutes, and when he was surely asleep,
she got out of the bed. She mopped the house, because it was three a.m. and then sat in the now vacant wheelchair
to think. She idly played a game on her cell phone while seeming to work out something in her head. She was
quiet, her breathing slow and paced. "six, seven, eight... and out, two, three..." Her fingers flew across the keys,
she'd actually gotten very good at typing on this phone. Purely out of necessity. Usually, she was having three
conversations at the time time, texting photos and looking for pixellated leprechauns. She went to the kitchen,
made herself a cup of coffee, and went back to the table. She drank it, partially. Her coffee always seemed to get
cold very quickly these days. She lied to herself and said, "It must be the draft in here." Really, it was just her
forgetting the world around her as she sank deeply into thought.
Five a.m. She got up again and checked on the lover in her bed. There was a draft in here too, and she took an
extra blanket off a pile on the chair in the corner. She gently covered him with it, and went into the kitchen to do
her dishes.
As she finished, she decided to scrub the coffee pot, laughing quietly to herself. This thing has seen me through
a lot of chapters so far, heh heh. She scrubbed it clean.
It took some work. Everything else was well kept, except the coffeepot. Pots. She had two of them. one
smaller one, a four cup jobby, and a larger twelve cup jobby. She'd been using it and neglecting it's care, so she
cleaned it as lovingly as she would a small child.
"Poor thing," she spoke at it. "When I die, I'm leaving you to someone that will love you." She looked at the
big black crock-pot next to it and wondered who would get that.
"My son," she decided. The other candidate would already have access to one, and she was going to make sure
that the girl would be able to use it anytime she wanted to. "Someone has to teach that child to cook and it's going
to be ME."
Lost in text messaging, and thinking about the story she was going to write, she noticed it was six a.m. Time to
actually make coffee. She filled the paper liner with strong blend and set it to work. Waiting until it brewed just
enough for one cup, she snatched out the pot and poured herself some. Placing it back to catch the rest, she
prepared it to her liking and took it to the table. She drank half while having breakfast. coffee and a sandwich
bought the night before just for this occasion.
Finishing her meal, she got up, cleared the table, once again forgetting her coffee. She then sat at the computer
and typed: "This is the story of my life..."
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