She had barely gotten her hands on the sheets, when the doorbell rang again.She stormed through the house and to the door. She opened it to find a sma...l man standing there holding a milk crate filled with tools. He smiled at her.In a thick Eastern European accent that she had never figured out where it came from, he said, "Hello, Mrs. Susan. I'm Ernest. Mr. Irving sent me over to patch the wall." Come in, Ernest," Susan said. Ernest had been doing odd jobs around the house for more years than. He wanted to paint me reclining on his rococo chaise longue, with legs slightly parted.This was all so new. It was difficult to contain the excitement, the sheer naughtiness of being naked with this stranger, and even more difficult to reconcile it with his matter-of-fact approach to his painting, and his caressing approach to me, reassuring, almost embracing me, with his voice. Only the surges of honey made it possible to ride such a rollercoaster.The creamy voice caressed everything he talked. More

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