“Bobby,” I called, “I ordered pizza from Arguillo’s.”“Great,” he said from just behind me, “I love that place.”I turned with a start... He had snuck up on me. “You son of a bitch,” I said with my hand over my heart, “Don’t be doing that.”We laughed and I went back to the shower. Just a quick spritz to rinse the cum from my hair. I combed it out and then wrapped the towel around my head. Back to my bedroom for another long tee shirt. I decided also on a pair of panties. After all, the pizza. “May I ask, did you buy the sybian here?”“No,” I say, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “My husband sent away for it.”Sandra peers at the screen. “It looks like one we stock,” she says. “You don’t happen to know what make and model it is, do you?”I can just about remember the make, but the model escapes me.“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Sandra says, “since you’re not interested.”But now she’s planted the idea in my mind, I can’t help but ask, “What do you mean by advertising exactly?”Sandra leans back.. Again she began massaging my ass. Her hands were creating magic on my back. I closed my eyes and enjoyed her deft touches on my naked body sleeping on my stomach on the dining table. She inserted her hands in my ass crack too. Her fingers were almost reaching my pussy crack but she did not touch my pussy hole. Her actions were making me wish for more. Where ever she kept her hands I would get goose pimples. She was expert in massaging and teasing a woman. She would reach my pussy then when I. And, in one frenzied afternoon, Ron Hubbard outdid himself and fed the sheets into my platen as fast as he could type... and produced that underrated tribute to my kind -- "Typewriter in the Sky," of course. Subsequently he went on to found a religion, but that's a different story.Oh, the things I've seen, the songs I've played, the scenes I've sung, the tales I've typed. Sex. Madness. Despair. Exaltation. Hot passion. Cold rage. It's a wonder my battered old hulk has survived it all.And here I.