I Love You. I'm Sorry.

By Kevin Farran

From bitterness to beauty, from love to lust, these five words can tear and tantalize the soul.

This collection of five novellas takes us on a journey to worlds, times, environments, and instances beyond our physical boundaries, but not beyond the expansive plain of our emotions.
As emotive beings we can twist and churn, alter and burn the very meanings and intentions of pure desires. This collection transports the reader through those turns whether they are brutal, exciting, exploratory or decadent, to a richness and understanding of 'love' that casts a revelatory shadow on such simple words.
These five novellas, cast in five different countries, in five different eras, with five differing cultures, and five different themes, all finish on exactly the same five words... I love you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I love you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Farran
• Release date: Nov 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393933922

Book preview

1

1630 SCOTLAND

---

The fire hissed and crackled, the burning of night. A sound she so often found as a comfort for her soul. Agatha watched the shy tongues of flame flicker and shift on the spine of wood. It was their food, their fuel and they devoured it to their own demise. She was like that with him; her dreams gnawed at the pain of her isolation. She shifted and adjusted the corset lacings. Concern, that gnawing ache of unknowing, riddled her spirit. Her eyes wandered from the flames to the shadows cast on the brooding stone walls. Stern and withering the walls glared their harsh judgment at her. Ever cold, ever dispassionate, they were her protectors and her jailers. The draughty brittle family castle was far removed from the trappings of the township. Often weeks, even months, passed without the glimpse of a traveler. News from her husband came only three or four times a year at most.

She gazed in despair at the wood. Her body was young and needed love. Her skin, lusted by only one man, her flesh screamed for affection, it wanted to dissolve into passion and desire, a pool of whirling writhing ecstasy. Where had the vibrant earth-shattering quakes of her body gone? Why could she no longer shudder as her womanly passion released? Was she destined to live as some form of dried fruit? A sigh crippled and clenched the cold hole that was her heart. The clasp of loneliness, its devastating despondency, robbed her arms of strength, her face of youthful countenance and yet each morning she painted joy upon it for her children. She was a lie. She cast her hope into a well with no echo, a bottomless hollow.

A tear interrupted the view of the fire. It blurred making the world distorted. She too was distorted as her womanly desire and passion shriveled. Agatha’s eyes glazed, consumed by the licking flames and their passion to devour. A thin sheath of bark flaked loose and tumbled to the base. It began to writhe and shrivel. The intensity of the flame’s passion transformed it to a withered dried fruit. Was that her heart? Was that contorted mass, her love, shaped by starved passion into a twisted blackened fig?

Her palms pummeled hard into her eye sockets. She would push the isolation away; push the cold away. It must stop.

---

A swish of fabric cut through the crackle of the fire and she glanced to her left. The governess of her children had slipped into the room. Catherine was slightly older than Agatha and had already won her children over. She had also charmed the young mother. She had many stories, and though it had only been three months since her arrival she had taken the sharp edge off Agatha’s despondency. Over the four solitary years, littered with a smattering of brief letters, numerous nights passed without a trace. Her youth, her life was devoured by loneliness. Now she turned increasingly to the laughter and vibrancy of the tutor. The young woman arrived unannounced and flushed a warmth into the house that withered in the draughts of forlorn hopes.

Agatha shrugged the demons from her mind and smiled. Catherine, will you join me for a mug of mead at the fire?

Certainly, I’ll bring a jug through from the kitchen.

Agatha rested her head in the palm of her hand. Mead, was that the only solution to the situation she found herself in?

The tutor returned and passed the mug to Agatha. You are feeling melancholy again. We could play cards?

Thank you, but no. I just wonder how long will I be tied alone to the house?

We have the children, spring is erupting and summer coming soon. The estate will be very busy.

Of course, I know, but that doesn’t remedy the emptiness in my heart. How do you remain so untouched?

I am touched. I miss love too.

Have you known love? Tell me of him.

A shadow flittered across her bubbly eyes. I had a love, but it ended early. Sickness. Her gaze challenged the brooding grey of the walls then bounced back to Agatha; refreshed. Taken before our hearts could truly flourish.

And you are still searching for it?

Catherine passed the mug of mead to Agatha. Of course, aren’t we all?

I’m not sure. Perhaps I search for it in my sleep. I know it is drifting somewhere in the mists of my dreams. How I yearn to be touched.

The touch of love is beyond words, it melts the woman in us. To feel the caress and fondling of a lover makes my breath go short.

The shooting tongues of fire captivated Agatha. She stared at the little happy beasts with envy. They had what they desired. The gold and yellow tongues danced and romped in a feast of hot devouring passion. Her words fell softly, like the flicker of the flames. Sometimes I imagine him on top of me, touching and caressing me. My body flushes as if he were actually here. The tutor could see Agatha’s body start to heave with her memory. Some nights I lay on my back and can see him above me. I try to imagine feeling his manhood pulsing into me.

Catherine could see Agatha, the lady of the house, was again spiraling in her loneliness to the edge of despair. Perhaps it had been the long winter, but that was made worse by the fact her husband had been away for just over four years. Loneliness was a vice squeezing her thoughts. There had been no contact for eight months. There will be word soon.

Agatha never heard the empty hope and remained transfixed by the fire. Her finger caressed her lower lip; searching for the passion which had once thrived there. Sometimes when I bathe I imagine the hands running over my body are not mine but my lover. The hands swirl and cup my breasts twisting my hair and nipples then they race down between my thighs. She gulped air and glanced at the tutor. She wasn’t embarrassed or ashamed. The look in her eyes was that of the flames, of a searching desperate hunger.

The tutor leaned over. I too have felt the caress of my own hands. It is easy with some soap and warm water.

A playful smile cracked her gloom. Far easier than one expects.

The tutor sighed. But it is no substitute.

Of course not, Catherine. Agatha leaned into the tutor. The talk of love had swelled her passions. But love comes in so many forms and excitements. We have so many ways to love. Her thoughts thundered without direction. She shook her head and tipped back into the chair. He eyes drifted closed and her head tilted up. The heat from the fire glowed on her neck. She spoke to the darkness of her eyelids. For me, it was not to be. I was married a virgin at seventeen. I had never known a man. A stolen kiss occasionally, but the idea of passion and lusting for something that races through you uncontrollably, that I didn’t know. I have only known one man, one love. One consuming… force. She bit her lip. Her mind was bursting in the flush of memory. Her belly was warm with memories of his weight atop her, thundering desire. The edges of her breasts tingled, calling to have flames of passion lick at their curves.

He is still in your mind, in your soul. He must have been good. I can see him.

What do you mean? Agatha’s soft chocolate eyes wandered toward Catherine.

See him. On your chest here. The tutor reached over and circled the unblemished skin just above Agatha’s breast. The touch, the stroking in small circles going around, up to the base of her neck made Agatha smile. The governess continued up the smooth young neck. Softly fondling, then rubbing the earlobe between her fingers. Agatha’s eyes were closed. She was bathing in exquisite ecstasy. Agatha moaned and bit her lip. The hint of an arch pulsed through her back wanting more.

Catherine, a governess imprisoned by her own lonely past, by her own bitter choice, continued to fondle the neck and earlobe. Her breath tightened as she watched, entranced by the yearning inside Agatha. She could see the innocence of passion rippling near the surface of the enraptured young woman. With Agatha’s eyes closed Catherine gazed at the rise and fall of Agatha’s cleavage. She wanted to touch it and reassure herself of the passion that she, as a woman, possesses all over her body. The grey coarse walls witnessed the heat of the fire in the young bodies as memories drifted before the glowing hearth.

Agatha’s eyes opened and saw Catherine gazing at her breasts. Agatha’s hand drifted up, and as if grasping a petal, she clasped Catherine’s hand lowering it from her neck to her breast. She left it there. There was a paralyzing moment. Neither moved. The heat through the hand was dizzying and disturbing. There was a subtle squeeze and then a tearing light bolted through her body. Agatha stood abruptly and pulled the maid to her feet. She leaned forward and nuzzled Catherine’s neck, the way she liked her man to do to her. Then suddenly Agatha placed her hot wet lower lip on Catherine’s neck. She held it there not sure what to do and the impulse raced through and she nipped it slightly with her teeth. She expected the governess to jump, but instead, there was a slow groan from deep in Catherine’s soul, almost a growl of passion, of want.

So full of desire and lust was the sound that Agatha drew back. Did she taste the warmth of blood or something else? Catherine opened her eyes; aware her desire had been shown. She struggled for breath. Sorry, it felt so good.

No, no. I’m sorry, Catherine. I shouldn’t have done that. Your neck is very graceful.

The same as your breasts. I am sure they are… I mean if I saw them, had them … sorry I don’t know what I’m saying.

I think I need some sleep. The ah… mead, yes the mead.

Makes us light headed.

Agatha nodded, I must get some sleep. Agatha stared at the nip mark on Catherine’s neck. It drew her forward; she felt she wanted to suck and kiss the flesh. A rattling desire shuddered through her body. The power of need almost made her gasp. Goodnight.

Agatha hurried from the room. Catherine remained standing. She could feel warmth low between her thighs. She didn’t move; just stood in front of the fire reliving the passion and desire in the subtle nip. Thoughts of searing pain, wrenched and ached in her bones. Splinters of her lover’s hand raced in her memories. Touch from that love was never as sweet nor as subtle. He used anything to grace her body; stick, whip or chair. It was why she made her choice. It was right to stop the pain. She touched the subtle nip. It felt warm apologetic. After several minutes she drifted up toward her room. She paused as she passed Agatha’s chambers. Catherine hoped to hear something. She wasn’t sure what. Even a breath, a moan, but there was nothing. She unconsciously caressed her neck and slipped up to her room.

Agatha sensed there was a presence on the other side of the door. She looked down in the candlelight at her nightshirt. Her nipples were erect, hard and turned up protruding from the fabric, it was as if she was with him. She leaned back on her pillow and her hand slipped between her legs. She fondled herself softly. Just two fingers gently rubbed the area around her jewel. The gift she gave to her man. As she rubbed she could see him above her. She saw his power, his thrusting chest as he made her scream. She reached up for him and grasped his face. But, it was Catherine. She stopped and shook herself awake. It was Catherine’s face she saw in her mind. Though she had stopped touching herself the warm explosion of fluid was still between her legs and Catherine’s image pounded forward.

She lay back on the pillow, stiff, still. Her mind swirled in a torrent of scattered thoughts like leaves in the wind they tumbled in directionless distraction. Confusion had consumed her like the flames around the log in the fireplace.

2

The following morning Agatha avoided Catherine. She busied herself with the old cook arranging some marmalade and other stores. They would have to sell some produce to buy other stocks and the old cook was a master at bartering. The cook’s husband, many years older than his wife, helped as best he could. He would drive the team. It was a three-day trip for the trade.

Morn’ Ma’m, the old man’s voice crowed.

Good morning, Alistair. Are you well?

Yeh, of course an’ you?

Yes, but I didn’t sleep well.

Really? I thought you look ‘a best you ‘ave in months, full of life. Perhaps it’s the spring.

A shudder ran across Agatha’s shoulders. She remembered the nip on Catherine’s neck. She could feel it with her teeth. What had impassioned her to do it? Yes, the spring.

A grating behind her made her spin. Catherine was in the doorway. Agatha’s eyes immediately shot to her neck. There it was. She had made no effort to conceal it. Agatha glanced at Catherine and saw her anew, fresh; the fullness of her lips and small round face. The innocence of her graceful neck was disgraced by the rip of Agatha’s teeth.

Ma’m the children and I are going to the lake shore to pick flowers. There are snowdrops and crocuses. Maybe we can even find some bluebells. We’ll be back some time later. I can look after dinner if cook is away.

Agatha was still taken aback by the neck and word ‘Ma’m’. She saw her as Catherine, but now here in the cellar with cook and the cook’s old husband, it had changed. Ah, ah very well. I’m sure we can work something out. Enjoy yourself, please. It was odd to say ‘please’, but there was an affection that rushed forth, an apology for the neck nip.

Catherine turned and left. Agatha busied herself prepping the stores with the cook.

The cook had left ample food prepared for her brief three days away so dinner was no trouble whatsoever. What was more troubling was the enthusiasm of the children as they recounted the day. They were convinced the lake was ready for swimming though it was only late April. Being aged four and six they possessed unlimited energy. They swarmed around their mother recounting the flowers and adventures of the day. Agatha glanced up in the excitement at Catherine and that was when she caught Catherine touching her neck. She did it softly, caressing, remembering. The moment their eyes met the hand dropped away.

That night Agatha lit the fire in her room avoiding contact with Catherine. The night passed painfully slow. She found herself not thinking of her husband or house affairs or even the children, instead she constantly saw the neck and the full lips. How Catherine caressed the mark. The mark was like a statement, a brand. Her ears stretched forward almost willing a sound from the other side of the door. But then what? It was too far to think. She focused on grasping a sound, a movement, anything from outside her door.

3

The following day Agatha resolved to rid herself of the haunting little bite. She invited Catherine for a pie and mug of mead down by the lake edge while the children were having their afternoon sleep.

Agatha spread the cloth on the flattest rock along the shoreline and they each found a place to sit some distance from each other. Catherine looked up at the sky then across the lake. The sun is hot, it’s a brilliant day.

Agatha spoke wistfully in the heat. It’s even hot for a summer’s day.

It is that.

The sun’s heat blanketed their thoughts in warmth, robbing them of focus and replenishing them with fullness. Agatha turned to Catherine and watched her bask in the sunlight. Her eyes were drawn to the neck and the memory of how she could not stop wanting to bite. The mark on your neck, is it painful?

Is that why we are having lunch?

No, it just looks—

It’s not in the least.

I don’t know what came over me. I just, just… sorry. I hope it won’t make you want to leave.

She stared at the entrancing young wife. Not at all.

But it was an animal thing to do.

We are all animals. Don’t worry. Agatha, younger by four years, still looked uncertain. If you are so concerned I’ll bite you, we can be even. She said it in jest, but numerous times in the past she had wanted to bite in anger. That was then.

Agatha shook her head. She felt she had to. It was something she wanted far too much. The thought of claiming an animal kiss left her feeling vulnerable and sexy. Her breath quickened.

The young tutor sat up abruptly. Then let’s take in this wonderful day. Catherine undid her boots and lifted her skirts high up exposing her white thin legs. She then undid her bodice and loosened all the bindings exposing the middle of her chest. Her breasts were large and pushed the sides of the bodice well apart. The tingle of sunshine danced on the white innocence of exposed cleavage down across her lower belly. She lay back in the sun. They say sunshine keeps the skin fresh and the spirits high.

Agatha didn’t want to appear a prude, so she too slipped off her boots, leggings and shook her auburn hair free. Catherine watched through half closed eyes as the tumbling red cloud swirled around welcoming summer playfulness across her Lady’s shoulders.

You have mounds of hair. It is absolutely gorgeous, Catherine said. Agatha smiled and looked across the lake. It slept in stillness unlike her soul.

They leaned back on the flat rock and closed their eyes. The days heat pressed on their eyelids.

It’s so hot we should cool off with a swim.

Agatha laughed. Right. I think not.

Why? When was the last time you had a swim?

Long ago, when I was a child.

Catherine got quickly to her feet. You never forget. Just to cool off, come, let’s go in. She fiddled with her bodice.

What in our night shifts?

I want my night shift dry. Catherine smiled. Come on, my man and I used to do this. It is so freeing. She had dropped her dress and stood before Agatha in only her thin night shift. Come on there’s no one around. When is the last time you did something crazy?"

Last night. I bit your neck.

And was that bad? Agatha refused to answer. Catherine leaned down to the yearning confused eyes that pleaded up to her. I’m alive. I even enjoyed it. She stared at Agatha. Then in full view, Catherine slowly raised her shift over her head. Agatha gazed at the young body. She had enormous breasts. Her enormous palm-sized nipples stood in the subtle spring breeze. Entranced with the life of spring, Agatha stared at the body and felt her fingers begin to quiver and struggle as she raced to pull at the strapping of her own dress. She struggled to stand as she ripped at her clothes. Catherine came to her and gently helped undo the laces. An innocent giggle erupted between them. Catherine lifted Agatha’s nightshirt off, over her head. They were close. Their nipples almost touched. Agatha’s small pert breasts bowed to the bulbous pair before them. Their eyes met and an awkward, giddy smile erupted. They dashed into the water. The freezing frothing splash tantalized the burn on their skin as they fell into the chill of the lake.

It’s so cold.

Oh my god.

My breasts will turn to ice and fall off. Catherine screamed as she burst from below the water.

Agatha laughed. They are too big anyway.

Oh, it’s too much. I can’t feel my legs. My breasts are hard as rocks. She held a breast in each palm and jiggled them on the water surface.

I’m out. Agatha said and began a wild dash to the shore. This was totally crazy. Aagh, how did I let you talk me into it. She scampered up to their clothes and stood shivering on the rock.

Catherine staggered from the freezing spring water and stood before her shaking. Her massive breasts swayed like quivering bread dough. She grabbed her own shirt. Dry off with your shift.

Agatha stared at her in disbelief. But then what will I wear underneath?

Does it matter for a few hours? There’s no one around.

Agatha smiled at the playful innocence and vigorously scrubbed the cold lake water from her. I feel so alive. My body is tingling.

Mine too. They paused form the rubbing and looked at each other’s bodies. Studying the neck, breasts, stomach, across their woman hood down between the legs. They glanced at each other’s eyes, smiled, and then hurried back into their dresses. They dressed facing away from each other. It was odd that after exposure, a piece of privacy should suddenly be so important.

They sat back on the rock and Agatha refilled their mugs with mead.

I feel so alive. My body, everything is fresh. Agatha looked across the lake. She was searching for something.

Catherine watched Agatha’s pensive uncertainty. Was she regretting the swim or enthralled by it? Agatha, you have a lovely body, your hair, shape, your skin flows like white wind, your breasts, every curve. Agatha half turned to her, but then abruptly looked away. A sigh slipped between her lips as she gazed across the lake to the old castle. Catherine felt she had offended her. We have to respond to our impulses. We’re living beings. Don’t you think?

Agatha stood abruptly. I might be too cold to think. She cast a half smile toward the tutor. We should hurry back. The children will be stirring.

4

I ’ll put the children to sleep on my own. You relax Catherine.

The governess caught her breath momentarily. She was unsure if the afternoon had been too revealing and if her impulsiveness had lowered herself before her employer. Governesses were supposed to be highly esteemed, paragons of sophistication. She had no papers when she arrived. She had been hired by opportunity more than recommendation. She wanted to inspire happiness and life into Agatha. Had the lakeside dip been a mistake?

I’ll be back shortly. Please stir the fire I want to be sure I am hot through the evening after the afternoon freeze. Would you join me for some ale and cheese? Warm us inside? A hopeful smile obliterated all Catherine’s doubts of inappropriateness.

---

It took much longer than Catherine had an anticipated for Agatha to put her children to sleep. They were lively and full of the delights of summer and childhood. She tossed another log onto the fire. The log was a staunch intruder in the world of ebbing glowing warmth. A sense of freedom went with the log. Something else, some fear was cast into the flames. She watched dispassionately. That hindrance, that ghost, that fear and pain was on a pyre – burning, to be lost from her.

Sparks rustled, disturbed from their hot, ember-blanketed sleep and floated up the flue. The embers left below the log glared back and set about attacking the intruder who disturbed their slow meal. Within moments Catherine saw the licks of flame, like tentative fingers, caressing and feeling their way up and over the prone body of the intruder. At first cautious they soon began exploring the crinkled, crisp skin searching for an opening, a crevice to access the delights within. She rubbed the sharp hook of the pointer against the log, trying to help the adventurous fingers. She wanted to see them delve within and take hold of the inner succulent wood.

Are you that cold?

Catherine turned. Agatha had sat down and obviously had been watching her some time. Oh, no, just fascinated by the flames. They start so small and gamely try to get a hold and then soon burst into a roaring flame. They are so tenacious.

A bit like you and your desire to attempt to freeze yourself in the lake.

Well, it seemed warm at the edge.

It did not. Agatha laughed.

It did. I just wasn’t ready for the deeper water. When it hit my breasts, I thought I would die. At that point it became crazy.

Agatha stared at Catherine; at her bust. She remembered the massive size of her governess’s breasts and the playfulness she had in the water. Her own world was so cold and empty.

Catherine tipped her head to one side. Some ale and a slice of cheese?

Agatha realized she had been caught staring and abruptly looked away. Yes of course, yes.

Catherine stood before her and passed her the mug of ale. Agatha’s hand drifted out and grasped the mug. She drew it to her lips as Catherine spoke. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you today. I had no right to say that about your body.

Agatha sipped slowly, allowing her eyes to wash across the body she had seen earlier. She wondered what it was like when her man-made love to her with such large bosoms shaking. She was much more contained and reserved and yet she couldn’t stop thinking of what they must be like rocking in a bed. Her mind felt cold like a dark corridor.

Catherine shifted back to the other chair and sat staring at the flames. They sipped their ale in a stiff, bursting silence.

Catherine gazed, entranced by the tongues of the fire as they lashed at the smooth edges of the log. It protruded from the fire; an abrupt reminder of their young restless spirits. She had that spirit once. Was it gone, beaten from her? Never. Love in every form is a well-spring in the human heart.

Agatha gazed at the large round flames that rocked and waved like hanging bells. Those hanging bells were fire to her thoughts, burning. She got up from the large wooden chair and crossed to Catherine with the jug of ale. She topped up her mug. She wasn’t sure why. They’d only had a few sips each. Catherine looked up.

Catherine’s uncertainty took hold again and she gushed her thoughts forth. I feel I have offended you. It was just something that I felt, that blurted out. I, I…

Agatha set the jug down and knelt down before her. She never took her eyes away from Catherine’s. Like the nip on the neck, a rush of white light pressured the back of her eyes and her hand swept out onto the top of Catherine’s left breast. It was a kindness, it came from here. It’s all right. It came from here. The moment she touched the full lush breast her arm quivered and sent fire into her own chest. It made her chest numb with an odd control, an excitement, as if she knew of a secret hidden below. It came from here, from tenderness. Her thumb drew circles on the exposed skin. Small and then larger slowly pressing harder skirting under the edges of fabric like the flames licking at the log. Her fingers explored the soft flesh. She was captivated. Agatha’s fingers traced lines of passion, of excitement on skin. It was flushing. Catherine groaned softly almost whimper. Agatha glanced at her, but her face was turned up to the ceiling her eyes tightly closed.

The pressure rushed into Agatha. Without her hands leaving the calling flesh, she rose and kissed the area she had caressed. Her tongue plunged deep down into the cleavage, exploring, playing. Catherine’s chest was heaving.

She stood in front of the pulsing Catherine and grabbed both of the huge breasts and squeezed them hard. She thrust her thumbs down onto the nipples and Catherine let out a gasp. Her eyes begged a want from deep inside, an unknown scream for more and to stop the pleasure. She stared straight up at Agatha who raged with a constrained confused passion. Their eyes met and the impropriety avalanched forward, crushing their passion. Agatha tore her hands from Catherine’s breasts. She stood before her quivering, wringing her hands as if they had some unknown skin, possessed by some other.

Catherine leaned forward grasped the hands and kissed them. Each finger and knuckle softly like a blessing. She held them to her cheek; brushed her eyelashes against them. Agatha watched the slow considered kisses. Full minutes of suspended desire passed; with each kiss an understanding, a sharing was tied between them.

I’m so sorry, I… I bite you, and, and caress you. I think I am losing my mind in loneliness.

No, not at all. Sit down. You miss your man. We are young and vibrant, women in the blossom of everything that is true of being a woman. We need affection. We crave it like plants want sunshine. We need that softness, that tender moment.

But men aren’t like that. They are beasts they romp and ravage us and it, it’s gorgeous, I, I… miss his body, his smell, his power. Catherine saw Agatha’s flush race across her chest. In the firelight she churned inside with scorching suppressed passion. I worry if I will ever know it again?

Of course you will. Love is there. She pushed Agatha down into her chair and stroked the long mane of tangled hair. Agatha relaxed into the slow caress. You must find other ways to fill your heart with love. Expand your love.

Agatha’s racing pulse subsided. She drifted with her eyes half closed. The heat from the fire glowed on her complexion. She mumbled softly, How do you cope with no man?

Catherine’s fingers traced along Agatha’s neck and gently fondled her earlobes. I only want love. A man she paused and looked at the petite young woman below her drifting in bliss, is that really necessary? Agatha was almost asleep. Truth in love is everything.

Agatha mumbled something and floated into a consuming sleep. Catherine placed a light blanket over her. She yearned to touch the breasts and hips below the blanket, but dutifully tucked the blanket in and slipped away to her own room. Expectancy hung like a sweetness on her tongue.

The warmth of the fire made Agatha’s mind wander in sleep. Memories swirled and compounded. Bouncing back and forth they built in intensity. One fleeting image crashed into the orgasm of excitement from another. One glimpse of his tight muscled body, his pulsing thrusts, latched onto her and she twisted in her sleep. She arched back; her body craved another. She reached up to pull that love to her. The large flowing breasts engulfed her and she swallowed them. The softness of silken skin drifted across, grasping at her, pulling at her love. Thin feminine fingers raced and danced across her thighs; needing her, wanting her. Again the round breasts crashed down upon her chest and she startled awake. Panting, all she saw were the enormous breasts, Catherine’s breasts. She turned into her blanket and held it tight to her face. The ache and tears of loneliness were best suffocated. Where was her mind going? A mad spin of flushes and impulses shot through her body. Loneliness had a different grip on her before the fire.

The following three days were consumed with fieldwork. Agatha, as the head of the estate, was thrust to the fore in arranging the early season plowing