I hated that word."Here, let me show you what I mean Emily. Sam, hand me that brush." Myeyes widened as I looked at her in the mirror. "Come on, the b...ush." Mysister was just as close to it but she was asking me. I did as I was toldand handed her the brush. "One, two, three..." She did that when shebrushed my hair. She counted every stroke. Sometimes forty, sometimesfifty. One night when I had thrown a particular fit about wanting my haircut, she made it to one hundred, handed me the brush,. Dr. Walsh let her hands slide over her belly, and through the black hairy patch between her legs, fingers dipping into her hot moist crevice, then raised to her lips and licked clean. Her eyes were fixed on me, watching as my erection continued to strain the fabric of my jeans behind the podium.And on the projection screen, the animated objects were sliding around in pre-programmed patterns, arousing and molesting each other. Text boxes rubbed up against bidirectional arrows and penetrated. More

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